My Perseus
by Mabyn
Summary: Sequel to My Andromeda. The Ori have fallen, but the Priestess remains. Sam and Jack established.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Using the characters for fun, not profit. I'll put 'em back when I'm done.

Author's note: This is the sequel to _My Andromeda_ fanfiction (dot) net/s/3181387/1/. Won't make much sense on its own.

Author's note II: Bit of a darker story, campers. More angst, self-injurious stuff, some not pretty. But the later chapters will be more action/adventurey and full of Sam being all right-ness. If you're easily triggered, you may want to wait until chapter three-ish to delve in. (Send me a message and I'll send you a synopsis of what you missed.) Also, there's more swearing. Lots more swearing.

Author's note III: I'm writing this for NaNoWriMo, so it's very possible that the infamous talking squirrels (who have managed to pop up three times in as many years) will make an appearance. Also, I'm not editing and I'm working on two other stories. ...hence the inevitable appearance of the talking squirrels.

Right. On with the show.

* * *

**My Perseus**

**Chapter One**

**by Mabyn **

* * *

He wasn't sure if the smell or her hand on the knife had roiled his stomach more. 

There had been so much blood.

So much of _her_ blood.

He didn't remember calling the SGC or talking to Doctor Lam, or answering Daniel's phone call. He didn't know how much time had elapsed between using towels as tourniquets for her arms and the rest of SG-1 bursting through the door with the med team at their heels. He only vaguely remembered them tearing her from his arms, and, and--

Daniel and Teal'c and Mitchell's car,

blurring scenery,

passing, glaring headlights,

Mitchell and red lights and profanities,

tires screaming—accelerated too quickly,

nod and scurry of SGC personnel—

_her body, pale and still and drenched in her own blood_

--

They hovered in the hallway just outside the infirmary, saying nothing, staring into nothing, still and listening. Voices echoed out of the infirmary, overlapping, conflicting, convoluting each other and Daniel's addled brain struggled to keep pace.

A blood transfusion. Reconstructive surgery. These phrases he caught clearly; he sank to the floor, swiping his glasses from his face and burying his forehead in his knees. The position was fetal, but he couldn't care.

Mitchell muttered fiercely under his breath and kicked a nearby strut. "I need to get outta here," he said, addressing himself more than Daniel or Teal'c. "I'll be topside. Back in thirty."

His footsteps echoed down the empty corridor.

For a moment, Daniel wanted to follow him, but the air around him weighed his shoulders and sunk through his lungs. He was drowning. And he couldn't move.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there—unmoving, immobile—when Jack staggered through the doorway and all but collapsed on the floor next to him. His skin was taut and sallow, his eyes sunken and his shirt was coated with Sam's blood, now dried. When he spoke, his words were almost mechanical.

"She fucking knew what she was doing," he told them softly. "Cut her forearms from wrist to elbow, right along the vein, deep." He swallowed harshly, the overhead lights glinting off the dried salt trails on his cheeks. "Slashed a couple more times across."

Daniel's eyes tumbled closed and he coughed around the swelling in his throat. "Not a cry for help," he muttered.

"Fucking filleted herself," Jack said, his voice catching, his chin dimpling. He covered his face with his hands and drew a deep breath. "_God_," he sighed and drug his fingers through his hair.

"Do either of you require a beverage?" Teal'c's voice, sudden and strained, caught them off guard. Both Daniel and Jack looked up at him; his jaw flexed, his eyes distant, before he leaned away from the wall.

"Coffee," Jack said. "A pot if you can swing it."

Teal'c inclined his head and left silently.

Daniel cleared his throat once, twice, before he spoke. "I, uh, I had breakfast with her this morning," he said. "She ate, even laughed a few times." He grimaced and chided himself. "I thought she was doing all right."

Jack grunted and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his phone rattling in his pocket. "Gah," he sighed, fishing for it. "I never figured out how these things work in here," he muttered.

"There's receivers all over the place," Daniel said, gesturing around them. "Sam did it a few months after she got here."

But Jack wasn't listening. His phone pressed to his ear, his eyes slipped closed as Sam's voice, ragged and desperate, filtered through the earpiece.

"J-Jack," she stuttered, her tone clogged by tears. "I-I can't—I need you to call me." She broke off as a soft keening erupted from her throat. Jack's face tightened. "I can't—anymore," she managed before her voice grew distant and whispered Ancient words tumbled from her lips.

"Goddamn it," Jack whispered, his face creased. When Daniel leaned towards him, his face questioning, Jack held up a finger; Daniel complied and fell back against the wall.

She was crying now, deep, wrenching sobs that tore her chest apart; Jack heard her fumble for the phone. "Please," she whispered and her plea cut him. "Please, Jack..._I'm scared_."

The message ended. She had called him three hours ago. His phone had been off and in his pocket, and he—he had been reclining in first class—wonderfully relaxed—sipping a bottle of Heineken.

But if he hadn't managed to catch that flight—

Hell, if the President hadn't moved their meeting to next Friday—

And if his cab driver hadn't known about the accident on East Fountain—

If they had hit just one more red light—

"General O'Neill?"

Jack looked up and into the stalwart eyes of Doctor Lam. "We managed to stop the bleeding," she told him, sighing. "And thankfully Doctor Fraiser had the foresight to collect several units of Colonel Carter's blood." At his quizzical look, she explained, "Because of the naquadah in her system, we'd be hard pressed to find her a suitable donor. I'd like to give her more than we have, but it'll be enough to stabilize her for surgery."

Jack frowned. "Surgery?"

Doctor Lam looked from him to Daniel, her face questioning.

Jack dismissed her unspoken inquiry with a wave. "He's family."

The doctor nodded and continued. "She severed several tendons in her left arm. We need to reattach them immediately if she's to retain full movement and rotation."

"She still has that Ancient-y healing thing goin' on, right?" Jack asked. "Won't that help?"

"Yeah, sir," Doctor Lam sighed, "it will." She paused for a moment, carefully considering her next words. "Sir, I'm not a psychologist, but I have obviously been reading her files. I think her healing ability is responsible for why she did so much damage this time."

Daniel's eyes widened and he sat up straighter. "Whoa!" he exclaimed. "_This_ time? You mean this has happened before?"

Doctor Lam looked aghast, a hand fluttering to her mouth. "Oh god, sir, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't—"

Jack shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Doctor. We do have greater concerns at the moment."

"Yes, sir," she said, still mortified, but continued. "I, uh, I think she wanted to—eliminate any chance of her body regenerating itself."

"Yeah," Jack whispered, his head falling limply from his neck. "You're probably right." They were silent a moment, Doctor Lam's words ricocheting through the corridor, devoid of other personnel at two in the morning, before Jack asked, "Can I see her before you take her in?"

Doctor Lam nodded. "Of course."

As Jack rose, Daniel asked, "You want me to come in with you?"

He began to shake his head, but then reconsidered. "Yeah," he said finally, offering Daniel a hand up. "I do."**  
**

* * *

**Three months ago  
**

* * *

_Checkmate in two moves._

"Me?"

"Huh?" Cassie looked up from the board in front of her.

"Nothing."

_No. Cassie._

"Oh."

Cassie snapped her fingers away from her knight and seared into Jack, her brown eyes narrowing. Jack met her gaze and swallowed. "You're cheating, aren't you?"

He shook his head. "No."

_Liar._

"Liar."

"Not on purpose," he huffed and leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders in an effort to ease the throbbing in his head.

"You can't _accidentally_ cheat," Cassie told him, mulling over the board again. "That'd be like accidentally having sex."

_CASSIE!_

Jack groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You didn't just say that," Jack muttered from the depths of his palms. "I'm pretending you didn't just say that."

Cassie smirked and moved her knight. "The whole sentence or just the word 'sex?'"

"Yes."

_Ask her about Kevin._

"I _am_ twenty-two, Jack," Cassie told him. "Check."

"Doesn't mean you need to act like it," Jack muttered, running his finger over his lip as he surveyed his depleted armada of pieces. "Twelve was good," he said and moved his king. "You were cute at twelve."

_Jack. Ask her about Kevin._

"I'm not cute now?"

Jack sighed and cocked an eyebrow at his chess partner. "I may not be a smart man, but I do the definition of 'rhetorical question.'"

Cassie laughed and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her many rings sparkling as her fingers fluttered.

_Jack..._

"How's Kevin?"

Cassie shrugged and inspected a fingernail. "I broke up with him. A week ago."

_'Bout time._

"Sam says it's about time."

"Yeah, well," Cassie sighed and reclined in her chair. "She was right about him. He just wanted arm candy and a steady lay."

Jack blinked twice before inhaling deeply. "Yeah," he muttered. "I miss you being twelve."

Cassie ignored him. "Checkmate," she announced and sprung from her seat, her eyes dancing. "You're buying tonight." She swooped in and planted a kiss on Jack's forehead. "I gotta run to work." She grabbed her scarf from the foot of Sam's bed before gently kissing the woman's cheek. "I love you, Sam," she said softly, the twinkle in her eyes now muted, and smoothed the hair away from Sam's face. "You're very brave," she whispered. Then her lips cracked in a wry smile. "And you better snap out of it soon 'cause I got a backlog of girl stuff I need to discuss and I'll be damned if I'm gonna talk about it through Jack."

"Thank god for that," Jack muttered and smiled at the face Cassie threw his way. "Chinese sound good for dinner?"

"Oooooh," Cassie groaned, her eyes rolling slightly as she leaned against the door jamb. "Judy Fu's sounds kick ass." She glanced over her shoulder towards Sam and grinned. "Did I tell you she brought me _five quarts_ of Judy Fu's General Tso's chicken and Mongolian tofu, _and_ two quarts of fried rice the last time she visited me at school?"

Jack's eyes widened. "_Seven quarts_ of food?"

Laughing, Cassie nodded. "It lasted me through finals. Said her car smelled like Chinese food for _weeks_."

"I would think."

Cassie sighed and glared at her watch. "Okay, I _really_ gotta go. I'll be back around eight." And she bounded out the door in a puff of perfume and wool.

As he started packing up his defeat, he asked, _You okay?_

_Mmm._

He frowned and looked at her body lying on the bed, the various monitors beeping and blinking at intervals, and drew a settling breath. _It's been a month_, he told her. _You planning on waking up anytime soon?_

_Don't know,_ she told him and he could see her shrug.

_Funny, _he said, standing to pack the chess set into her closet. _I thought you knew everything._

_Not here,_ she said and smiled, though the expression was dim and solely for the sake of smiling. _Here I only know almost everything._

_But you did. Know everything._

He could see her lips purse and knew, if she were physically aware, she would be avoiding his gaze. _Theoretically._

_And you don't remember?_

She sighed. _It's complicated._

_I miss you,_ he told her. _That's not complicated._

_But it is._

_Stop it, _he told her, cringing as his tone bit his ears. _Sorry, _he said softly, _I'm just—look, I know you're scared, but--_

_I'm not scared, _she asserted. _I'm just...not ready._

_We won't let those whack jobs touch you._

_I know._

_Then what's the problem?_

When she didn't answer, he sighed and grabbed his coat from the closet. _I'm going for a walk. I hate hospitals._

_I know._

"'Course you do," he muttered, throwing his coat on and cramming his stocking cap onto his head.

_I won't be the same,_ she told him softly and his hand stilled on the door handle.

He was going to tell her she's not the same now, the procedure and defeating the Ori had changed her—as he knew they would. But perhaps she meant more than that. _How's that?_ he asked.

She was quiet a moment, but he could hear the dull ticking of her thoughts as they flicked by. _I can see it, in my head, the things that will happen if I come back into myself. _She sighed and he thought he heard her throat catch. _I won't be able to handle it._

God, he wished he could hold her, dive into her eyes, offer her comfort in some small, tangible way. _What happens?_

_You know I can't tell you._

He sighed. Yes, he knew. _Is it something—or somethings—we can handle together? You and me. We've taken down big, evil things before._

_But they were corporeal,_ she protested. _We could shoot them, strap C4 to their power cores and blow 'em to hell. We can't do that this time, save me having a lobotomy. _

_We'll hold that option in reserve._

_Jack._

_Kidding. _He paused outside the hospital's exit and drew in a deep drought of the crisp, late autumn air. He'd take a quick walk around the grounds, maybe stop off at Harvey's for a doughnut or three. _Still haven't heard from the Asgard._

_I told you we wouldn't. They're busy._

_Yeah, I was hoping you'd be wrong._

_You do that often?_

_More and more lately,_ he told her, and waved as Daniel, Mitchell and Teal'c drove past, Mitchell directing his SUV towards the parking lot. _The boys are here._

_I know._

_Right. Got anything to tell them?_

She paused, considering. _Daniel's translation is wrong. 'Intaprofeum' means 'deep within,' not 'in the middle of.'_

He frowned. _Seems kinda picky._

_It's important._

_Yeah, okay,_ he said and stretched his arms over his head, the dull ache in his head retreating somewhat under the influence of his activity. _Anything else?_

_I'll go crazy._

_All right, then, _he said. _We tell them nothing else._

_That's not what I meant. If I wake up, I'll go crazy, lose my mind._

_You'll be in good company._

_Jack. I'm serious._

He sighed and fished his sunglasses out of his pocket. _There are many shades of crazy, darlin'. _

_The bad crazy._

_How bad?_

_Bad bad._

_Okay,_ he began, _but we know that, right? And because we know that, we'll be prepared and kick its ass._ He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. _Right? _He paused, still waiting. _Sam? _He frowned and stopped walking without realizing it. _What aren't you telling me?_

_They're canceling the Simpsons._

_Liar._

She sighed. _Yeah._

_We are going to kick its ass, right?_

_I don't know. I can't see that far ahead._

He smiled slightly, her reticence suddenly making a little more sense. _And that scares you._

She hmmm'd softly. _...maybe. A little._

Ahead, Daniel, Mitchell and Teal'c turned the corner and began walking towards him. _So wake up and we'll find out together._

He could see her shaking her head. _Not yet. I might be able to see if I can--_

_Sam._

_Please, Jack._

He sighed. _Two more days._

_Seven._

_Four, or I'll make it an order._

_You will not._

_Try me._

She groaned, very obviously frustrated. _Only you would try to order a comatose person into consciousness. _

_Yeah, but you're not in a coma, are ya?_

She sighed. He had a point. _Fine. Four days._

Grinning, he said, _Excellent. I'll tell the boys._

_No, don't, _she said immediately and her insistence—desperation, almost—gave him pause. _I don't want them there._

_Why's'zat?_

_Just...trust me on this one._

"Hey, Jack," Daniel called, and then, a slight smile on his face, he said, "Hey, Sam."

"I'm doing it again, aren't I?" Jack asked, clearing his throat while he schooled his features.

Daniel nodded. "Yeah."

"It's like watching a silent film, sir," Mitchell said, smiling. "Just without the subtitles."

"Placards," Daniel corrected.

"Whatever."

"Way less melodramatic, I hope," Jack muttered. "Oh," he said, turning to Daniel. "Sam says something you're translating is wrong." He frowned slightly. "What was it again?"

Daniel shrugged. "No idea."

"Not you."

_'Intaprofeum' means 'deep within."_

"'Intaprofeum' means 'deep within.'"

Daniel stopped and considered, mumbling words Jack couldn't place under his breath. After a moment, his eyes widened. "'Scuse me," he clipped out. "Need to make a phone call." And he strode several long paces away from them, throwing, "Thanks, Sam!" over his shoulder while he whipped out his cell phone.

"What was that about?" Mitchell asked, squinting at Daniel talking animatedly on his cell phone, his mouth moving entirely too fast for anything coming out of it to make much sense, Mitchell thought.

"Don't know," Jack told him. "I am just the messenger." Looking to Teal'c, he asked, "Doughnuts?"

Teal'c's eyebrow rose and disappeared under the shadow of his cowboy hat.

"Harvey's is just around the corner."

"Then let us make haste."

As Jack and Teal'c began walking, Mitchell turned and said, "Shouldn't we wait for--"

"Daniel Jackson will meet us there," Teal'c called over his shoulder.

"Damn," Mitchell muttered. "Must be some good doughnuts."

* * *

**Now**

* * *

He had never seen her so pale. Not after Jolinar, or the entity, or even after the destruction of the Alpha site three years ago. Jack leaned heavily against her bed frame, his head falling limply to his chest. 

And then he winced. They hadn't stitched or bandaged her left arm, choosing to leave it lightly butterflied in preparation for her upcoming surgery. Five gashes—five bone-deep, blood freeing, _damningly_ precise gashes.

_She fucking knew what she was doing._

He had no idea how she was still breathing.

He shook himself and reached out to caress her cheek, flinching when he contacted her chilled skin. Swallowing the sudden tickle in his throat, he bent and kissed her softly. "I love you," he breathed, imagining his breath warming her, allowing her some modicum of comfort despite her lack of consciousness.

God, had he failed her. Failed her spectacularly.

It only takes a second to die and he had left her alone for eighteen hours. Of course, she had insisted she didn't need a babysitter, she could take care of herself and Daniel did only live fifteen blocks away now so he could be at her side in three minutes flat. He had left her a note reminding her to call Daniel if the need arose but—

Part of him knew she wouldn't.

He shouldn't have left her. Even on his way out, his bag slung over his shoulder, his hat under his arm, he had known he shouldn't leave, that something like this could happen. She warned him, she fucking _warned_ him. _"I won't be able to handle it."_

Goddamn. He never should have asked her to wake up.

"Blaming yourself won't help her."

As much as he loved Daniel, he really wanted to hit him when he said that.

Even if it was true.

"I know," he muttered and straightened, catching Doctor Lam's eye. "How long will the surgery take?" he asked.

"An hour," she told him. "Maybe an hour and a half. Not long."

He nodded. "We'll be in the commissary," he said, casting one more glance at Sam before leaving the infirmary, Daniel in tow. As he rounded the corner, a smile tugged his lips. Teal'c stood in the hallway, a foam cup in his hand and an entire coffee trolley by his side. "Good job, T," he praised. "You steal that from the kitchens?"

Teal'c frowned. "I stole nothing, O'Neill. Merely borrowed."

Jack smiled—tiredly, but still, he smiled. "Of course. Sorry, T."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

See chapter one for disclaimer.

The plot for this story went into hiding a couple days ago and hasn't been heard from since. Hence, the lack of updating. Sorry 'bout that.

* * *

**--**

**Three months ago**

**--**

She told him to bring her lotion from home—the red bottle—and tissues. Lots of tissues. Extra thick with lanolin.

_Have a specific kind in mind?_ His head reeled gazing glassy eyed at all the goddamn varieties of tissues.

_Yeah, but I don't remember what they're called._

_You know everything in the universe, but you can't--_

_Shut it._

_Yes, ma'am._

_Oh. The blue package._

_These?_

_Left a little._

_These?_

_Yeah, those. Two boxes._

He bought four.

_--_

They had decided on 2am. The doctors would be sparse, the nurses would have just switched over. In the hubbub they would be guaranteed at least fifteen minutes alone.

When he arrived at her room at 1:55, he switched on her bedside lamp and turned it towards the wall, the bulb reflecting off the white paint and creating a sort of comforting halo. He placed the vase of lilies where she could see them and pulled a bottle of cold purified water from his jacket—she couldn't stand tap water—before sitting close to her bedside and taking her hand.

He swore he could hear the digital clock ticking down the minutes.

She had lost weight and her skin was more pallid than he was used to, but, god, was she still beautiful. Her hair reached the middle of her shoulder blades, and she'd want it cut as soon as she was released, but for now he delighted in the way it flowed and rippled around her face.

1:59 and his leg bounced of its own accord. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her face; it'd been so long since he'd seen her eyes, open, aware, startlingly blue. Without realizing it, he whispered that he loved her.

And her eyes flew open, her entire body spasming as she gasped for air. Her hand shivered between his then wrenched out of his grasp and flew to her head, her fingers digging into her scalp.

"No," he told her and grabbed her wrist, forcing it away from her skin. Her eyes fell into his and he could feel his heart breaking. And--

She sits up, flies up, pulls her hands to her chest—collapsed, focused inward—and her arms explode, flailing in circles. And she is heedless of the I.V. taped to her arm. He winces and calls to her, telling her to still her arm—she's bleeding already—but she doesn't hear him. He clamps his hand around her arm and forces it back towards the mattress to keep the tube supple, her liquids flowing.

"Versaseum duca quod Sapientia somas," she whispers and she is on the brink of tears. "Is ast vitualamae ipsa tenda ipsa--"

She begins weeping and he is powerless to calm her, though he tries. He whispers to her—her name, his name, the story of how she came to be in the hospital, the story of Andromeda and her Perseus.

But she doesn't hear him, and he's not sure if she even realizes he's there.

"--ipsa subsenquens superstas universum," she continues, her clenched palm repeatedly battering her temple as her tears fall freely. "Gnarus decora, gnarus morsa putas tripudia quod numeras contemna."

He reaches out to still her hand, but she does not allow herself to be restrained and grunts as she propels herself away from him, off of the bed and onto the floor, the needle tearing from her arm, her open hands stroking the cold tiles, her fingers tracing the grouting. "Is est una in vicis," she whispers and he thinks he understands her meaning, but the words are hazy in his head. 'Una,' one, 'vicis,' time, and he wishes to god Daniel were here.

He crawls over the bed, slowly so he doesn't scare her, and lowers himself to the floor beside her.

Without looking at him, she says, "Sum custapacis," and grips her knees with her arms, rocking back-forth, back-forth on her haunches. "Lucis adda," and she sighs, her breath hitching and she keens softly as her tears spill down her cheeks. "Libra astra." He can hardly hear her, though he's straining. Her words are jumbled by her gasping breaths, and before he realizes it, his fingers are gently entwined in her hair.

"The stars are out right now, baby," he tells her without thinking—he's never called her 'baby' before. "The stars are out." And he doesn't recognize his voice because it has been washed clean by his own sorrow. "The stars are out."

And she stops. "Astram," she whispers and almost looks at him. "Perseus protects us."

He nods and almost smiles. "That's right," he tells her. "And Andromeda saves us." His voice wavers into silence, his fingers tracing her face hidden behind a veil of hair. "Orion's--" his voice fails. He clears his throat and tries again. "Orion's right above us."

His breath flies when she suddenly looks at him, her eyes wide and distant, her pupils barely, barely visible inside the cloud of her irises. "Miendas," she says. "Oras, Ova, Plesapa." Somehow he knows to which stars she is referring and they flash across his mind in swirling succession.

She falls silent, her mouth slightly agape, and he says, "Tell me more names. Name them all for me." And he realizes it doesn't matter what she's saying as long as she's saying something because it's been too goddamn long since he's heard her voice.

She looks at him, her eyes staring through him to the stars on the other side of heaven, and she whispers, "I know them. I know all of them."

He grasps her hand. "Tell me their names."

She begins speaking and her eyelids drift together and he watches her. After several moments, she relaxes and moves towards him; his arms immediately gather her body to his chest and he pulls her into his lap. He buries his nose in her hair and breathes deeply, gripping her closer to him and wanting nothing more than to crawl inside of her. The gentle hum of her voice melds with her heartbeat and her tears are falling fast and free and--

He's not surprised when his cheeks grow moist and his nose begins to run because he honestly never thought he'd hear her voice again. But she's warm and safe and alive in his arms, and her fingers are twining with his and her thumb is rubbing back-forth, back-forth over his skin.

He'll never leave her again, he promises himself. If he has to move stars, give her stars or rearrange heaven, he'll sure as hell do it because she needs him now more than ever before and he'll be damned if he's leaving.

--

The President called a week later. They needed him back in Washington ASAP for two or four, possibly ten, days and he resisted and told the leader of the "free" world that he was resigning.

And the President laughed. "No way in hell."

Jack knew he's say that, but his preparedness didn't stop him from becoming mightily pissed off at the President's blithe dismissal of his request. "With all due respect sir," he said, "all of our biggest intergalactic threats have been eliminated. The Homeworld is secure, at least for the time being, thanks entirely to Colonel Carter, who is currently dealing with the fallout of eliminating said threats and to whom I also happen to be engaged."

"I understand your dedication to Colonel Carter," the President said—even though Jack thought he hadn't a clue. "But we do have more pressing matters at the moment."

"I don't."

He heard the President sigh and pause. "I phrased that poorly," he said.

"Damn right," Jack said, adding the, "Sir," belatedly on purpose.

The President lapsed into silence for a moment. "I suppose," he said at last, "if I sent a plane, I'd also have to send armed airmen to make you board it."

"That's an accurate supposition, sir."

"Thought so." He thought he heard the President growl an expletive under his breath and smirked. "The SGC has teleconferencing capabilities," he said.

"It does."

"Would you be willing to use them until Colonel Carter is..." The President trailed off, obviously searching for a polite description of Sam's current condition.

"Stable?" Jack supplied and twirled the phone cord around his fingers.

"Yes."

"Absolutely," he said. "With the understanding that if something happens during a teleconference and Carter requires my assistance, I will, of course, be allowed to assist her."

More Presidential growling followed, though Jack could not make out the specifics. "Were you this much trouble for Hammond?"

Jack smiled. "Nope. Way more, sir."

"Dear lord," the President mumbled. After a moment, he sighed heavily—somewhat melodramatically, Jack thought—and said, "Yes, with that understanding."

Grinning, Jack glanced through the vined panel of glass to Sam, currently curled in a hospital chair, her hand flying across a crossword puzzle. "Thank you, sir. Pleasure doing business with you."

"My secretary will send you the meeting times." He paused. "Gonna be fun explaining this one to Keats and Carridan," he muttered.

"Yes," Jack mused, picturing the two generals' huffing and puffing over his absence. "Fun."

**--**

**Now**

**--**

The commissary was nearly empty and Jack was glad of it. The few officers populating the premises began to come to attention at his arrival, but he silently waved them back to ease. A captain—Greggs, Jack thought, though it might've been Craige—hesitantly approached him.

"Sir?" the young man asked and Jack nodded for him to speak. "Sir, I work with Colonel Carter in the lab--"

Jack drew a sharp breath, his chin lifting, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the captain. But he did earn brownie points—he said 'work,' not 'worked.'

"--and," he continued, "I hope she's able to return soon. She is missed." He paused a moment. "If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know. Several of the other lab assistants also share my sentiments."

"So if the naquadah generator in our basement breaks..." Jack deadpanned.

The captain smiled. "We'll be right on it, yes, sir."

Jack tried to echo his expression, barely managing to succeed. "Thanks, Captain. I'll pass the word along."

The young man nodded, gathered his coffee and plate of doughnuts, and left the commissary.

Jack sighed and beelined for the coffee pots. After pouring a cup of stale coffee and attempting to cover the taste with three packets of sugar, he sunk into a chair in the corner, Daniel, Teal'c and Mitchell behind him. Daniel opened his mouth but was cut off.

"General!" Mathers called from the door. "General O'Neill!"

Jack glowered into his cup of coffee and then glanced at Teal'c who cocked his eyebrow and rose silently.

Mathers stopped walking as soon as he saw Teal'c coming towards him, his eyes widening ever so slightly. Jack watched out of the corner of his eye as Mathers' mouth alternately gaped and snapped shut as Teal'c rumbled at him. At one point the major gestured towards their table and Jack clearly heard Teal'c say, "If you value your physical well-being, I suggest you reconsider your proposed actions." Mitchell snickered and took a deep gulp of his coffee to cover it.

**--**

**Three and a half months ago**

**--**

Mathers had hovered around the hospital the entire month of her convalescence. Even though they had allowed him and his team of specialists access to Sam's most recent records, they—her doctors and superiors—had denied him access to her specifically.

"They're innocuous," Mathers explained, his smile easy, his features untroubled. General Hammond remained unimpressed. "Completely safe. Won't hurt her a bit, and the knowledge we stand to gain--"

"Your certainty is based on what exactly?"

Mathers smiled and Hammond's wariness increased. "We've run countless thousand computer simulations, General, and all of them indicate--"

"That they won't cause harmful residual effects on a computer?" Hammond scoffed. "Major, Colonel Carter's mind could kick the shit out of any computer you're able to get your hands on. Your 'computer simulations' are hardly proof that these proposed procedures will leave her intact and in control of her mental faculties."

"To the contrary, General," Mathers said, handing him a thick file. "We believe that Colonel Carter's increased brain capacity will allow her to stop the test should it—for some unforeseeable reason—cause her any harm."

"While she's still in a coma?" Hammond placed the file on his desk without looking through it.

Mathers shoved his hands into his pockets. "As that file says, sir," he began, his condescending tone itching at Hammond's eyebrow. "She isn't comatose. In fact, she's clocking more brain activity now than when she's conscious. Now is the perfect time to--"

"To leave her the hell alone."

"To perform certain procedures, _sir_," Mathers said, frustration scratching at his tone. "It is possible—even likely—that using the scanner will give us greater insight into her condition, and maybe even explain it."

Hammond's eyes narrowed, the back of his eyes searing through his pupils. "You would just love that, wouldn't you?"

Mathers frowned, but Hammond could sense the tinge of fear in his expression. "Excuse me, sir?"

The general was silent a moment, his eyes still burning and staring dead into Mathers'gaze. "You are not permitted near Colonel Carter, Major Mathers, nor are you to question her doctors regarding her condition."

Mathers' eyebrow quirked, his lips thinly set. "Is that an order, General?"

Hammond shook his head. "No, son," he said. "It's a warning. One I hope you'll take seriously. Dismissed."

"General, you are ignoring the practical--"

"Major," Hammond snapped. "I said, '_dismissed_.'"

He nodded and bent over to recover his briefcase, his face grimly, almost angrily, cast. But he saluted before he left, and closed the door to Hammond's office softly behind him.

**--**

**Now**

**--**

"Well done," Mitchell muttered as Teal'c rejoined them. "That man's a scum-sucking leech brain."

"A parasite," Daniel agreed. "I still can't believe we couldn't implicate him."

Jack grunted and took a deep gulp of his coffee, wrinkling his nose as it went down. "Unfortunately, the word of an unconscious woman speaking through her fiancée doesn't hold as much weight as it used to." He leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples.

"They listened to her well enough when the gate died," Daniel said. "Never thought I'd hear you say 'reroute the main subroutine through the matrix diode.'"

Jack sighed. "Yeah, well," he said. "Just glad it worked. And that they were desperate enough to listen."

"You'd think the powers that be would give you a little more credit, though," Mitchell said. "Even after that whole gate fiasco, they didn't believe you about ol' scum for brains."

"You said leeches before," Daniel told him and took a drink of his coffee.

"Whatever."

**--**

**Three and a half months ago**

**--**

He'd never feel his ass again, he thought, subtly repositioning himself in one of the ungodly uncomfortable chairs around the briefing table. General Carridan continued prattling on about defensive measures that wouldn't work, weapons technology that wouldn't work, and other various so-called "intergalactic" mayhem causing devices that also wouldn't work.

He had, however, already voiced his opinion that launching programs to build these technologies would be a monumental waste of time and resources. They hadn't listened. Of course, they didn't have an astrophysicist/genius/scary, all-knowing Priestess floating around their brains, either. Said scary, all-knowing Priestess was currently raging at General Carridan's proposed plans for a planetary defense system. Only in this case, "planetary" referred to the United States and Canada.

Which is what she was currently ranting about...he thought. He had stopped paying attention awhile ago.

When had she stopped ranting?

_Jack?_

He grunted audibly and quickly cleared his throat to cover his faux pas. _What's up?_

_I think...oh god!_

_Sam?_

_Jack!_

_What--_

She screamed and her piercing tones reverberated through his skull. He gasped and cradled his head in his hands, pressing soundly on his temples.

"Jack," he heard Hammond mutter next to him. "You all right?"

He stood up and stumbled out of the room, tossing, "Excuse me, Sirs," over his shoulder.

_Sam? _he called out, but she didn't respond. He fished his phone from his pocket, the metal slippery in his hands, and speed-dialed the Academy Hospital.

"Get a nurse to Carter's room," he ordered, the words clipping from his tongue.

"Doctor Reynolds just--"

"NOW!"

"Yessir!" the nurse said.

He didn't hang up until he heard, "Callahan to 122 stat. Callahan to 122 stat," peal over the PA system.

He still didn't hear Sam.

"Daniel," he said when his friend answered the phone. "I need you to get to Sam ASAP. Bring Teal'c."

"What's goin' on?" Daniel asked, and Jack clearly heard the sound of heavy books being dropped onto a metal table. He winced; Sam's scream still echoed in his head.

"I don't know," he admitted, "but I've never heard her scream like that before."

"We're on our way."

--

"Oh my god," Lieutenant Callahan gasped as she surveyed the scene in room 122. Leaping over the smoking body of Doctor Reynolds, she glanced from Colonel Carter's seizing body to the machine attached to her by multiple diodes. Swearing under her breath, she punched Colonel Carter's emergency button before she shoved the machine out of her way and pulled the cord from the wall, praying that the immediate lack of power wouldn't harm Colonel Carter further.

Her patient's body stilled immediately. She turned and glanced at the monitors surrounding the bed and found them inactive, their innards, still smoking, clearly visible through their broken screens. Sighing, she slapped two fingers against Carter's neck and found her pulse elevated, but her breathing steady.

"Holy shit."

Callahan turned and saw Lieutenants Ackerman and Sidney pouring over Doctor Reynold's still smoking body. "What the hell happened?" Ackerman asked.

"No idea," Callahan said, "But Colonel Carter's monitors are fried and that one," she said, pointing at the machine she had unplugged, "I've never seen before."

"He's dead," Sidney told them, his fingers plastered to Doctor Reynold's neck. "No respiration, no heartbeat."

"He is smoking," Ackerman pointed out. "Obviously some sort of electrical...malfunction?" She looked to Callahan who paused from her task of removing the cords from the broken monitors.

Callahan drew a purposeful breath and let it out silently. She had overheard Reynolds conversing—rather, arguing—with Doctor Smith a few days ago about Colonel Carter. From what she deduced, Reynolds had suggested they try an experimental procedure on the Colonel.

"If it works, we'll be able to pinpoint the exact cause of her continued unconsciousness," he had said.

Smith had clipped back softly, his lips a thin line and the vein on his neck bulging a deep purple. Whatever they were discussing, it had obviously riled him, which Callahan found difficult to fathom. Smith rarely grew impatient, let alone angry. Reynolds' proposed procedure must have crossed several severe lines to elicit such a vehement reaction.

"What the hell..." Callahan looked up and saw Doctor Smith lowering himself beside Reynolds' body. He grimaced and sighed and muttered something Callahan couldn't quite make out. "Get a stretcher," he told Ackerman, "and bring Hans back with you." She nodded and left.

"How's Colonel Carter?" the doctor asked, approaching Callahan and expertly assessing Carter's pulse, respiration, and cortical response.

"Stable," Callahan told him, "though I'm not entirely sure how that's possible." She gestured towards the monitors, the blackened screens. "Whatever did that most likely passed through Colonel Carter first. How she could've withstood it..."

"Well," Smith said. "She is a special case."

Callahan nodded. "No kidding." She looked over her shoulder at Doctor Reynold's body and then to the unknown machine. "She was hooked up to that when I got here."

Doctor Smith's eyebrows creased and he moved to investigate the device, placing his glasses on his forehead as he closely examined it. "Fascinating..." Callahan heard him mutter. "Unprecedented and ludicrous, but fascinating nonetheless."

"Do you know what it is?"

Smith shook his head. "Not in the slightest. But the technicians at the SGC might be able to deduce its purpose."

"I'll get the paperwork, Doctor," Callahan told him, neatly folding the cords still attached to Colonel Carter and laying them beside her before she left the room.

"Gwenyth!"

Callahan turned and saw Daniel Jackson and Teal'c running down the hallway towards Colonel Carter's room. "Daniel?"

"Sam's--" Daniel began as he stopped beside her, his chest heaving.

"She's fine," she assured him.

Daniel frowned. "You sure?"

"Positive," she said. "She has a few first degree burns, but nothing compared to Doctor Reynolds."

Daniel's frown deepened. "Doctor Reynolds? Isn't he one of Sam's doctors?"

"Was," Callahan sighed. "He's dead."

"Dead? How?"

"Ah, roasted and toasted and fried to a crisp," she told him. "Found him along with some weird device thing hooked up to Sam, hence the burns."

Daniel and Teal'c exchanged worried glances and Daniel asked, "What kind of weird device?"

Callahan seared him with knowing look. "The experimental kind."

--


	3. Chapter 3

See chapter one for disclaimer.

I'm baaaaaaack!

* * *

"_Goddammit!"_

Daniel winced and pulled the phone from his ear as a string of profanities shot out of Jack's mouth. "She's all right, Jack," Daniel assured him. "Callahan said her vitals are stable and the burns have practically healed already."

"I promised I wouldn't let anything happen to her," Jack muttered and kicked the baseboard next to his desk.

"If you hadn't called the hospital," Daniel said, "it could've been a hell of a lot worse. She might've looked like Reynolds." He shuddered, remembering both the smell and sight of the electrocuted man. "How's she doing?"

"I don't know. She hasn't said anything." Jack sighed and crumpled into his chair, his forehead heavy against the cool wood grain.

"Can you feel her?"

Jack frowned. "What?"

"Reach out with your mind and see if you can feel her presence." Daniel winced and clicked the pen in his hand. "That sounded--"

"Weird."

"A bit." He clicked his pen again and began doodling on the page in front of him. "Sorry."

"No, no," Jack said, "I'll...reach out with my mind." He paused, considering. "There's really no good way to say that."

"Not without sounding all Star Trekky, no."

Jack drew a purposeful breath and closed his eyes, his mind fluxed with images of her―

--concentrating on some piece of alien technology

--curled up on the couch beside him, her eyes dancing as she laughed at a sitcom

--sleeping, her body warm and bare under the blankets and the dull glow of the streetlight

--stretched out on a beach chair under the rays of the Caribbean sun and clad only in a black string bikini, a margarita melting slowly on the table beside her

--ranting about some new and very wrong theory some physicist from somewhere had about wormholes/space-time/subspace something or other

--glowing after a ride on her Indian

--spackled with marinara sauce (She had left it on the burner and promptly forgotten about it five minutes later when he began kissing her. He had managed to get her shirt off before the smell of burning tomatoes and oregano brought the reality of dinner smashing back to them. She had leapt off the couch in her bra and sweatpants, both of which were ruined by the maelstrom of marinara awaiting her in the kitchen.)

--her eyes half-closed, her mouth open and gasping, her fingernails entrenched in his shoulders

--her face when he proposed

--her face when she finally saw the ring

He felt her―her presence, her being, her scent, her imprint―he felt her. And his chest gushed in relief.

_Sam?_ He imagined he reached out a hand, feeling for her, grasping for any shred or memory of her, when he stumbled (but not really) and fell (but not quite) and threw an arm over his eyes to shield them from the sudden and blinding light. It subsided slowly and he blinked as his irises adjusted.

And then he gasped. "Whoa..." he muttered. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink and red, and highlighting the steep, snowy peaks of the mountaintops. She was standing there, facing the fading sun, her hair loose and flowing around shoulders, her body swathed in light blue, translucent fabric.

"You found me," she said. Tears clogged her voice.

"You let me find you," he told her and began to approach her. When he reached a hand toward the small of her back, she shied away. He stuffed his hand in his pocket, frowning. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, still staring straight ahead, her arms wrapped protectively around her.

Swallowing, he looked around, deep into the crags at their feet, into the distance―the view was mesmerizing and he suddenly felt insignificant.

"Where are we?"

"Inside my mind," she told him.

"Big place."

"Yes."

"Very, very big."

"I didn't mean to kill him," she said quickly, her voice catching.

He frowned. "What?" And then he realized. "Doctor Reynolds?" She nodded. "You did that?"

"I didn't mean to." Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands before raking her fingers through her hair. "There's so much, Jack," she told him. "So many variables. I can't control them all. I have so much power, it's terrifying." She was quiet a moment, her eyes very distant, before she continued, her voice hollow. "No one should be able to create and destroy worlds with a thought."

"You're saying you can?"

"I'm saying I have."

He felt his eyes stretch. "Excuse me?"

A choked sob escaped her. "I've made five and―and destroyed eight. I tried to put them back, recreate them, but every single person, Jack, every single individual life―plus the alternates―" She groaned softly. "So many alternate realities, infinite dimensions―" She coughed out a low chuckle. "Infinite, but I know the exact number. Everything contradicts itself and I get lost in it."

He was quiet a moment, unsettled by her admission, but grieved by her sorrow. "C'mere," he muttered and reached for her.

She jumped away from him. "No," she spat, her eyes wide, her arms trembling. "Don't touch me."

"Why not?"

"I don't--" She covered her mouth as a deep keen wound up from her stomach. Her eyes helpless, he fell into them―lines etched into her skin, every pore of her body radiating her distress. "I can't lose you," she whispered. "You're the only thing keeping me sane."

He stared back at her evenly, attempting to assure her. "You won't hurt me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"You can't."

"Can too."

Her chest seized and forced her to take a breath. "How?"

His lips twitched. "Trust me." She stared at him for unending seconds before the fight abandoned her body. "C'mere."

Her steps towards him jarred her body, and he caught her in his arms as her knees buckled. She wept and clung to him, her nails digging into his neck, his shoulder; her tears saturating the curve of his uniform. Slowly, he sank their entwined bodies to the ground, his eyes wrinkling closed as her sorrow drenched him. The bodies of those she had inadvertently slaughtered clung to her tears, each a dull echo, a distant mirror, of who they had once been. His lips brushing her ear, he whispered, "Keep crying. I got you. Just keep crying."

She sobbed oceans before finally tumbling into a deep, tumultuous sleep.

* * *

** Now **

* * *

He still felt the weight of her body against his, the full brunt of her rage—at herself, her condition, her inability to control her own mind. And he thought he saw her imprint carved into his clothing, he thought he felt his shoulder seep with her tears. He glanced down.

And realized he had yet to change. His breath caught when he saw the blood crusted on his shoulder.

She was barely breathing. Blood pooled around her arms, staining her shirt, her hair. He thought he might be able to scoop the liquid back into her body, back around the ligaments, the muscle tissue, the pink bone glistening just past that rivulet--

Coffee jumped from his mug as he slammed it onto the table. The liquid should have scorched his skin and he should have felt it; he didn't. He should have heard the metal feet of his chair screech against the concrete floor; he didn't. He should have felt the eyes of his friends on his back as he stormed from the commissary, heard Daniel calling to him; he didn't.

He only felt the suffocating presence of Sam's blood hardened on his shirt—over his shoulder, his sleeves, across his chest. He had to be rid of it. Her death was riding him and he couldn't bear it any longer.

_God, fuck it,_ he thought madly, storming down the corridor towards her quarters, officers and airmen leaping out of his way. _Sam, I'm so sorry._ The door of her quarters slammed behind him and he flung the shirt from his body, the buttons bursting their threads and clattering to the floor. Breath hissed from between his teeth and, with an explosion of sound, part sob, part scream, he rent the shirt in two. Fibers burst into the air as they were violently freed—and the light caught the crimson particles of--

Salt cascaded into his mouth and he was dimly aware of someone sobbing. Tossing one piece of fabric away, he brought the other to his face, combing it for any familiar scent, sensation, anything of Sam, anything besides her blood. The floor clashed against his knees, the concrete pressed coolly against his forehead.

Someone kept crying and Sam's blood wrapped around him. Someone kept crying.

...he kept crying.

She had saved the universe. But he wasn't sure he could save her.

--

"I believe Colonel Carter has made her instability obvious, General." Major Mathers leaned forward and offered Landry a thick brown folder. "While the President has yet to issue the order for the Colonel's removal, for many misguided reasons--"

He stopped when Landry pegged him with a scowl and smiled easily. "He's a good leader, but not a behavioral specialist." Mathers sighed, his smile lingering. "I believe it's only a matter of time until he's convinced of the severity of the situation and the order is issued. After all, we'd be fools to let such a valuable resource fall victim to her own self-destruction."

"Colonel Carter is valuable asset," Landry began, his tone dangerously soft, "but she is not and never will be a resource. Regardless of what has been done to her, she is still a human being, who demands all of the rights and---"

"Actually," Mathers interrupted, settling back in his chair. "Because of what was done to her, our researchers have discovered she's not. Human. Not anymore."

Landry's eyes narrowed and his tongue suddenly felt too large for his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"According to the tests we've managed to run with what little data we've been allowed," Mathers began, "Colonel Carter's biochemical and physical make up have been sufficiently altered to categorize her as a non-human entity."

Landry's eyes widened. "That's ridiculous!"

"No," Mathers replied. "That's science."

Shaking his head, Landry began, "Our scientists and researchers have been working around the clock on Colonel Carter's condition and haven't--"

"They haven't been researching the areas we have," Mathers told him, reaching towards the file. He opened it and, after paging through, found a particular page replete with graphs and charts and polysyllabic medical terms Landry couldn't possibly place. "And if they have," Mathers continued, "they've been keeping their findings quiet in order to protect her."

Landry shut the file and leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing the man sitting across from him. Mathers' smug demeanor polluted the air around him, making Landry queasy, though he supposed the condition was psychosomatic. "Do they need to protect her, Major?" he asked softly. "I work for the continued welfare of my homeworld and country. Who do you work for?"

Mathers smiled and Landry—not for the first time—felt the urge to damage the Major's perfect white teeth. Preferably with a baseball bat. "We're working towards the same goal, General. Continued welfare of world and country. We just have different methods of attaining those goals."

"Yes," Landry drawled. "My 'methods,' as you call them, bench on basic human rights for all beings, regardless of their humanness." He paused, enjoying watching Mathers squirm, if only for a second. "I'd wager your 'methods' don't include such liberties."

"Colonel Carter is an Air Force officer," Mathers retaliated. "Therefore she is required to do what is ordered of her for the benefit of her country."

"Carter just saved the universe from total annihilation, Major. I think she deserves a bit of a break, don't you?"

Mathers shook his head. "No, sir. I don't."

"Huh." Landry twirled idly in his chair, his face towards the ceiling and lost in thought. "What else would you have her do? Must be something big."

Nodding, Mathers said, "Yes, sir."

"What's this big something?"

"Our plans for Colonel Carter are classified," Mathers told him, a small smile flickering across his lips at Landry's raised brow. "As the commander of a top secret military base, I'm sure you understand."

"Oh, well. If it's classified." Landry rose from his chair and crossed to the door. "Sergeant," he said to the guard outside, "please escort Major Mathers to the surface." He silenced Mathers' protests with a quick wave of his hand. "He's not to be allowed on base unless under Presidential order."

Mathers scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide and angry. "General, I have strict orders--"

"Major," Landry began, "I do what I have to in order to protect my country and world. My methods are different than yours. Right now, this is my method."

"General--"

Landry cut him off, his tone clipped. "I am the commander of this top secret military facility, right? We just went over this. I'm sure you remember."

Mathers said nothing.

"As commander, I'm ordering you off my base."

Mathers huffed and, fuming, asked, "May I have a reason, sir?"

Landry smirked. "Oh, that's classified. As a major pain in my ass, I'm sure you understand."

* * *

General Landry so rocks. 


	4. Chapter 4

See chapter one for disclaimer.

Very many thanks to those of you who responded to chapter three. Wouldn't be a chapter four this soon without you. :) Enjoy.

--------

"Wait, what?"

Landry passed the file Mathers had left with him across the table to Daniel. "That's all he gave me and it's in med-speak. That one of your twenty-three?"

"Twenty-seven, and no." He opened the file anyway. Colored graphs and charts, apparently in-depth analyses, complicated equations—pages and pages of them. "He just_ let_ you have this?" Daniel asked as he skimmed the first few pages, Mitchell reading over his shoulder.

Landry shrugged, his shoulders bowing like balloons. "He gave it to me. I threw him out. He was too busy protesting his removal to ask for it back."

"Ah-ha." Daniel snapped the folder shut and slid it to Doctor Lam. The doctor's eyes narrowed as they tore apart the language, searching for research gaps, faulty assumptions, diagnoses made on sketchy—or no—evidence.

"Look it over, Doctor," Landry told her. "See if what he's claiming has any merit or even a basis in reality. Do your own tests if you have to. I want a trusted second opinion."

Lam nodded and swept out of the conference room, the folder tucked securely under her arm.

"So don't all humans have different genetic getups anyway?" Mitchell asked. "Wouldn't they be hard pressed to prove Sam's gone beyond the whole human thing?"

"She defeated the Ori with her mind," Daniel reminded him. "I'd say she's gone beyond the human thing."

"But...is she still?" Mitchell swiped his hands across his face and through his hair before rising from his seat to pace the room. "I mean she hasn't demonstrated the level of power we saw on Tempor—Tempor—whatever since she snapped out of it." He paused and leaned against the back of a chair. "The only power she's shown is the power to make very bad decisions."

"She was desperate," Jack muttered, looking up from the tabletop to meet Mitchell's eyes. "She's got a lot...going on in her head."

"Which gets my total respect," Mitchell assured him, his hand outstretched to the general. "But it still chalks up as _very bad_ in my book."

Teal'c leaned forward in his seat, his fingers interlaced on the table. "Do we know why Major Mathers insists on removing Colonel Carter?"

Landry shook his head. "Said it was classified."

"Well, that's just bullshit," Jack told him, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat. "You and I have the highest clearance possible. Nothing that bastard knows is too big for us."

Landry nodded, his eyes readily expressing his frustration. "I've already put in a call to the President regarding the situation, but he's been in meetings all day."

Jack sighed. "Of course he has."

"I'm hoping to hear from him within the next six hours," Landry said, "but I'm not holding my breath. We should explore other avenues open to us. Call in some markers. If this this really is as big as Mathers' made it sound—god knows he has a love for melodrama--some else has gotta know something. Jack, see if you can--"

He was cut off by a quick rapping at the door. Without waiting for a response, Captain Caise poked her head through the entryway and immediately found Jack. "Colonel Carter is out of surgery, sir," she said softly, quickly. "Apologies for the interruption."

"None necessary, Captain," Jack assured her. "Thank you." She smiled in response and closed the door quietly behind her.

Turning back to Jack, Landry continued, "See if you can dig something up back in D.C...without actually leaving." To the others, he said, "All of you have to have someone you can contact."

"I know a guy," Mitchell said immediately. "He owes me more than one. I'll see what I can get."

Daniel nodded. "Same here."

"Archeology geeks heavy on the intel, eh?" Mitchell barbed. "Who knew?"

Jack smirked as Daniel rolled his eyes and looked to Landry to confirm their assignments. "Do it," he told them, rolling his chair away from the table. "Do whatever you have to. I want Colonel Carter safe. I have a gut feeling she's more important to us than we know. And we know a damn lot. Dismissed."

--

The infirmary lights had been dimmed prior to his arrival. He found her bedside automatically; wasn't hard. She slept behind a privacy curtain, her arms bandaged in white medical tape, her face wiped free of the blood that had stained it. Just hours ago.

But, _god_, such hours. He couldn't decide if they had lasted minutes or years or a mixed up amalgamation of both—but _god_. He sunk into the chair at her bedside, the dim light shadowing his face, leaping off of the crevices in his forehead, under his eyes, his chin. The past hours had doubled his age, perhaps tripled it.

He hadn't slept in...a very long time.

He needed coffee.

"Coffee?" Daniel muttered as he moved the curtain aside with his elbow, two steaming cups in his hands.

Jack's lips smiled and he relaxed a bit, eased by this simple familiarity. "I could kiss you."

"Which would lead to your lap full of very hot coffee."

"I said I could," Jack said. "Never said I would." He blew across the surface of the liquid and watched the gentle spirals of steam wisp into nothingness.

"Yeah, but sometimes you have a rough time telling the difference."

"Touche."

Daniel perched on the chair opposite Jack and took a deep drink of his coffee. Jack watched him, outwardly unphased, but still reeling at the man's tolerance. After ten plus years of drinking near-boiling liquids, he was shocked Daniel had any taste buds—or tongue, for that matter—left.

"Have you given anymore thought to Dr. Lam's suggestion?"

Jack inhaled sharply. "No," he answered. "I haven't."

Daniel was quiet for a moment, but Jack could feel his discontent. "Why not?" He asked at last, his honest curiosity apparent in his tone, even in the way his fingers curled around his coffee cup.

"She's not crazy, Daniel," Jack asserted, his voice hushed, yet weighted with his vehemence.

Daniel nodded. "I know that. I do." He paused and looked at Jack over the rim of his glasses. "But that's only one side of this coin, isn't it?"

Jack sighed and placed his coffee on the stand beside him. Rubbing his hands across his face and through his hair, he fought the frustration welling up inside him and managed to ask, "What exactly are you saying?"

"Well," Daniel began slowly, weighing his words thoughtfully. "They'd be able to keep an eye on her twenty-four-seven, provide the kind of care we obviously failed to."

Jack's coffee cup found its way back to his hand and he took a deep drink, grimacing at the bitterness. "If she had been locked up and still wanted to take a go at her life, she would've found a way," he said. "We both know that." He paused and looked down at her, her face serene and free of the stress creases her waking hours brought. Perfect. He could almost fool himself into thinking she was all right. "If she's determined to do something, she does it," he said softly. "Regardless of the obstacles."

"But they'd have other means to--" Daniel's protest died on his lips and Jack stabbed him with a dark glare.

"To what? Stop her?" he asked, his eyes narrowing, his fingers fisting together. "Restrain her? Dope her up until we find out how to reverse what's been done to her? Hell, we could do that here, Daniel."

"Maybe we should."

He said it so softly Jack thought he imagined it. Surely he wouldn't even suggest--

But the look on Daniel's face, the way he wouldn't even meet his eyes. "You're serious."

Slowly, Daniel nodded. His voice hitching, he said, "Yeah. I really am."

Jack's coffee cup fell from his hand, spilling what little remained across the floor. "I can't believe--"

Daniel gathered his feet beneath him and rose, his head hanging from his neck, his movements harsh. "I don't like the idea, either, Jack, I hate it—_I hate it._" He finally met Jack's incredulous gaze and Jack was struck by his friend's desperation, his grief. "But I'd rather see her restrained or medicated than dead." Daniel's head began shaking seemingly of its own accord, his gaze grew distant. "I couldn't do that." His eyes snapped back to Jack's, his jaw squared. "And if confining or restraining her is the only way," he said, "I say we do it." He smiled ruefully. "Hell, I've been locked in a padded room before. I can think of worse places."

His mouth suddenly parched, Jack wished for his coffee as he worked his bottom lip gently between his teeth. "We'll see when she wakes up," he said at last. "But it'd have to be here. Locking an unstable telepath up with a bunch of lunatics would be just asking for trouble."

Daniel frowned. "She's still telepathic?"

"She's still--" Jack sighed. "Yes. Maybe. She..." He shifted in his seat and shrugged. "She hears things," he finished, and cringed. "She'll see random flashes of things that have happened, are happening, will happen. Things taking place across the world, on a different world, a different galaxy. She can hear thoughts, but can't trace them. Honestly, I can understand why she did what she did."

Daniel nodded. "The universe isn't an especially nice place."

Jack shook his head. "No. It's really not."

--

Mitchell sighed and checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Drecks was late. But only by ten minutes, so if he showed in the next five, he'd be right on time. At least by Drecks' standards.

He ordered another cup of coffee and lost himself for a moment in the delicious sway of the waitress' hips as she went to fill his order. The waitress' hips that were tightly bound in blue and white gingham. And topped with apron strings. Kinda like his grandmother used to wear—only not as tight and not nearly as sexy--

And, good god, did he need a sex life. And a girlfriend. Hell, a blow-up doll would be an improvement over--

"Sorry I'm late."

Without turning around, Mitchell shook his head. "No, you're not."

Drecks grinned and tossed his coat into the booth before sliding in next to it. "You're right. I'm not. But I was _almost_ sorry which is an improvement, yes?"

Mitchell smiled wryly and thanked the waitress as she refilled his cup. His smile grew when he saw Drecks unabashedly enjoying the waitress' curves and the waitress unabashedly showing her disdain for Drecks' enjoyment.

"Anything for you, sir?" She clipped out, her sculpted eyebrow arched menacingly.

To his credit, Drecks schooled his features (and managed to surreptitiously wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth) and regarded her with something resembling respect. Impressive.

"Coffee. Black."

"You got it." She turned and began her walk back to the kitchen; Drecks' eyes followed her and Mitchell wondered if his neck was naturally that flexible or if years of rubbernecking women had turned his neck to—well, rubber.

When Drecks finally turned back to Mitchell, his jaw was still hanging open. "You know how to pick 'em, Ace," he said admiringly. "Next time I need a meet-up, I'm lettin' you decide where."

Mitchell smirked. "Now if only the info's as good as the view, eh?"

Drecks shook himself as if clearing his head, his jet black hair staying still despite the movement. "Right," he said, his face hardening. Mitchell immediately frowned, the hollow in the pit of his stomach growing at his friend's obvious severity.

Drecks was never serious. Drecks didn't know how to be serious. Drecks laughed his way right out of basic and into some top world security deal. Apparently, Drecks had an I.Q. of 170ish. Between pulling quarters out of ears belonging to men three times Drecks' size, and tying the female recruits' bras together and using the resultant cord to garland the mess hall, Mitchell had never guessed his friend was a genius.

While he never said his work was confidential, Drecks was always very specifically vague when he talked about it. From what Mitchell had gleaned, his friend worked with some combination of communications, intelligence and technology, and he had been pretty damn positive Drecks would be able to dredge up something regarding Mathers' plans for Carter. Judging by the fairly thick folder he laid on the table between them, he'd been right.

"This is some serious shit, Ace," Drecks said, nodding his thanks to the waitress as she placed a steaming mug in front of him. He waited until she was out of range before whispering, "If you weren't the Air Force, I'd tell you _to tell_ the Air Force. And you know how much I hate military."

Mitchell nodded and reached for the file, looking up when Drecks stopped him. "Seriously, man," he said, his dark eyes sparking with fervor and unmasked fear. "It's not just your little girlfriend who's in it. They pull this off, the _whole world _goes down." Drecks took a deep breath and looked quickly over his shoulder; Mitchell frowned.

"No one could've possibly--" he began, but Drecks hushed him with a look and pulled a small metal object, no larger than a dime, from the collar of his shirt. Smoothly, and with admirable sleight of hand, he placed it on the table between them.

"I'm wired," he said immediately. Before Mitchell could speak, he said, "I've just disrupted their signal. We have maybe thirty seconds before this place gets blown hell."

Mitchell opened his mouth to speak but--

"Shut up and listen. The people after Colonel Carter cannot—_cannot_—get their hands on her. They do and the world's dead." His eyes flicked to the file and back to Mitchell's face. "There's a disc in that folder. Everything I was able to dig up before they found me is on it." His face cracked in a broad smile. "And you thought my magic tricks would never come in handy."

"Drecks, I--"

"You need to run. Out the back, through the kitchen. There's a bike. It was mine. Take it."

Mitchell secured the folder under his arm and suddenly Drecks' intent dawned on him. "You're coming with me," he asserted, his eyes wide and jetting between the waitress, the two other patrons and the cook in the kitchen. Innocents. Civilians. They had to know. He had to--

Drecks shook his head. "Sorry, man, but I am--quite literally--the bomb." He opened his suit coat to reveal a thin disc hidden beneath it. A digital readout flashed ':20.' "We run in opposite directions this time," he said. "Starting **now**." Drecks' shoes squelched across the floor, his soles etching black marks into the linoleum.

Mitchell watched Drecks' retreating back for half a second before yelling everyone in the cafe to duck, get under the table, into the bathroom, before he burst through the back kitchen doors, onto the bike and towards the Springs.

Fifteen seconds later, he heard the explosion. Fourteen seconds later, he felt the blast wave as a wall of heat scraping across his back. Ten seconds later, he hit the highway.

He stumbled into the General Landry's office, breathless and enraged, fifteen minutes after Drecks' death.

----

Sam wakes up in the next chapter. I'm really missing her. :(


	5. Chapter 5

'Bout time... Stupid gremlins...

--

She woke up suddenly and gasping, her eyes wide and dilated, her fingers entrenched in the sheets. "They killed him," she whispered. "They--" She broke off and Jack stumbled into her distant gaze, her eyes staring through him and refusing to see. "They—_killed him_." She began winding her way out of bed, encumbered by her limbs' sedation.

"Sam." Jack wound his fingers through her hair until his palm supported the base of her head. Folding her arm gently back beneath the covers, he said, "Sam, look at me." Daniel remained silent, yet grabbed hold of her other arm in an effort to keep her stationary. "She doesn't know where she is," Jack muttered and motioned for Daniel to tighten his grip. He did, cringing when she cried out and jerked against him.

"Let go of me," she grated, her eyes wild, still unseeing. "They killed him--"

Enclosing the sides of her face in his hands, Jack eclipsed her thought and forced her to look at him. She stilled and frowned at the severity in his eyes tempered by the tenderness just beneath. Slowly, the glaze evaporated and she calmed. She whispered his name; a question. Her hesitance pained him.

"Yes," he told her, brushing his fingers down her cheek. "It's me."

"They killed him," she repeated, unashamed as her chin dimpled and tears filled her eyes. "He knew and they killed him."

Jack's eyes narrowed and he exchanged quick glances with Daniel. "Killed who?" he asked her.

She frowned and her eyes jetted from his, her pupils dilating in time to her shaking head. "I don't—I don't know. He was supposed to kill Cameron."

"Cameron?" Daniel asked, unconsciously tightening his grip on her arm. "Mitchell?"

Sam's face crumpled and she nodded, her hair falling in strings across her face. "He's dead," she repeated softly, her knees bending and straightening under the blankets. "He's dead..."

Dread curled its way through Jack's stomach as he motioned Daniel out the door. Killing Mitchell would be quite a message, though he wasn't sure Mathers would be prepared for the response. Of course, until he heard the news from someone other than Sam, he was going to count Mitchell among the living.

And that was a heavy realization.

Sam wrenched her face from his grip, and one of her hands fisted and curled protectively over her stomach as she pulled her knees to her chest. "We have to—we have to leave--" she said softly, her eyes wide, frantic. "We have to--" A low keen issued from her throat and she gripped her head between her hands. "Stop," she whispered, desperate, her voice laced with tears. "Stop...please..."

"Sam," Jack said, running the backs of his fingers along her upper arm. "Look at me, Sam." But she paid no attention. Slowly, he eased himself onto the bed next to her and reached out to take her hands; her nails were digging lightly into her scalp and he knew her mind was flying through information faster than she could process it. His nostrils flared and he wrenched her fingers from her scalp, his knuckles paling around her wrists as he held them steady.

"Look. At. Me."

She couldn't help herself. Shocked, slightly stricken, her mouth falling half-open, she looked at him. And, finally, she saw him, _knew_ she saw him; knew that he was real and not a fragment of her delusions; knew that he was there with her, right then, in that moment, and all of the realities, effects, alternatives, answers, conclusions, concepts that she remembered fell, for that moment, by the wayside.

And he smiled, crookedly and with just a slight upturn of his lips. "Found you."

A deep breath—half sigh, half desperate exhalation—escaped her lungs and she collapsed into the crook of his neck, the familiar scent of his cologne, muted by time, calming her further. "What happened?" Her voice was trembling and she wasn't sure why—but, _god_, was she thirsty. When Jack's muscles tensed beneath her, she pulled back to question him and realized they were in the SGC infirmary.

More accurately, _she_ was in the infirmary, swathed in a thin cotton gown and surrounded by machines that beeped at regular intervals. She frowned. "Jack? What happened?" she repeated, following the line of the IV tubing down to her--

Her eyes widened, her stomach hollowed at the sight of the bandages. And something was wrapped too tightly around her throat, constricting her airway, laboring her breath; she was sure the world had grown too tight, too crowded for anything to move, but she had to say something and she could only whisper through the pressure.

"...oh my god."

--

Daniel ran full tilt around a corner and smack into Sergeant Siler. Ducking his way through the stream of papers that erupted from the sergeant's hands, Daniel cast an apology over his shoulder before continuing his frantic pace to Landry's office.

His lungs heaving when he got to the general's door, he rapped quickly out of courtesy before throwing the door open and stumbling into the room. "General," he rasped, "we have reason to believe Colonel Mitchell--" He broke off, his brows alternately furrowing and arching as he absorbed the room's occupants. "...is alive, intact and sitting in your office."

"Excellent deduction, Dr. Jackson," Landry said. "Gold star."

Mitchell smirked, though his expression was distant. "You been runnin'?"

Daniel melted into the door frame and nodded. "From the infirmary."

"You could've called."

"Not nearly as dramatic."

Siler grumbled as he strode past the open door, his arms laden with disheveled papers and file folders. "Really very sorry!" Daniel called after him. Drawing a deep breath, he hefted himself away from the door and into the unoccupied chair beside Mitchell. "So," he began, glancing from Landry to Mitchell. "Not dead."

"Nearly dead," Mitchell amended. "And a buddy of mine bit it, but," he tapped the open folder on Landry's desk, "hopefully we'll get something out of it."

Daniel arched his neck to view the folder's contents. "Phone book pages?"

Landry nodded. "From 2003." Then a small smile tipped his lips. "There was a disk slipped into this mess," he said. "I've already sent it down to the lab."

"Ah-ha. Any idea what might be on it?"

Mitchell shrugged. "I was hoping for his mother's recipe for fried chicken. Or it could be the back up disk for his porn collection."

"Very helpful."

"No problem."

Landry ignored them. "Colonel Mitchell said his contact was deep into communication and intelligence."

"Yeah," Mitchell affirmed. "Bigger geek than Carter."

Daniel's eyes widened. "That's possible?"

"Well," Mitchell began, mentally weighing the two. "Different kind of geekiness." Landry cleared his throat, his eyebrow arched. Mitchell immediately straightened. "Which is neither here nor there, but Drecks said he managed to dig up some info and slap it on that disk before those bastards caught him and--" He broke off, his lips twisted in a scowl.

"We'll know more once they've analyzed the disk," Landry said. "Until then, I've got the base on full alert and stationed S.F.s outside the infirmary for Colonel Carter's safety." He began cleaning up the torn phone book pages and placed the folder to the side.

"Speaking of Sam," Mitchell said, "how is she?"

"Awake."

"What?" Mitchell exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

"Just did."

"Well, you--" He broke off and sighed heavily, his eyes rolling. Turning to the general, and noticing the brilliant gleam in his expression, he began, "Permisson--"

"Granted," Landry said immediately. As the two men clambered from their chairs, he continued. "Tell General O'Neill, Carter and Teal'c I'll meet them in the infirmary shortly to brief them about what we might know."

--

two months ago

--

The wind had died down substantially since they arrived earlier that morning. What had been a chilly, blustery day had lulled into a calm, almost cloudless evening. The occasional breeze flew past every now and again, teasing her hair and whisking away the mosquitoes. Her bare legs and feet were speckled pink by new bites she acquired during the stillest moments. She watched the insects land on her skin and pierce through her flesh with their probosces, five, sometimes six at a time.

She felt no pain, which she thought odd. Losing blood should hurt—at least twinge or spark her skin. But as she watched six, seven mosquitoes drink from her legs, she felt nothing. And even after they left, having gorged themselves on her blood, leaving her with a pinprick of their poison,

she felt nothing.

Shouldn't it itch? Shouldn't her skin welt and flush and leave her raking at her limbs?

she felt nothing.

And if she equated _feeling_ with _being_ then she wasn't.

She doubted they were even feeding, simply flying, landing, waiting, flying again. If they fed from her, there would be blood, there would be evidence of the event and even now the bites she had gathered just a few minutes before had faded into unblemished skin.

Like they never happened.

She watched as a mosquito landed on her knee and slipped its beak through her skin to drink. Imagining the fluid arching through its body, filling its abdominal cavity with its prenatal meal

she squeezed it between her fingers.

In the waning light, fluid burst into a crimson drop on her fingers. Five microlitres of her blood shimmering like a liquid gem. Then the skin around the drop dissolved and the liquid sunk into the creases of her fingerprints, and she knew the blood was drying but--

if _feeling_ equated _being_ then she wasn't.

She wasn't sure if the knife came from the kitchen or simply appeared in her hand. But it wouldn't be _simple_; conjuring matter out of energy requires enormous resources, resources not currently at her disposal, but she wasn't sure that would matter. She single-handedly destroyed the Ori. Surely willing material objects into being wasn't too far of a stretch.

Steel glinted in the dying firelight _(when had she come inside?)_ and in her eyes. Her skin was so white against the silver, so pale, deathly. Perhaps insects had stolen all of her blood, forcing the color from her skin—but she'd always been pale. Hadn't she?

The blade glided across her skin, a thin streak of red trailing its path. She watched, barely breathing, as blood filled the hairline cut across her arm and then dissolved as her body mended itself.

Again, the knife flew and again the blood came. And again it healed.

Again, deeper this time, such a deep, deep crimson. She never knew she was this beautiful on the other side of her skin.

Again and again.

Again, like rain, like slender flowers.

Again, like wind.

Again, like fire.

Again, like joy.

And she watched, her jaw falling open in wonder, as she reached towards the sky and the streams glistened down her arm and onto the blanket puddled around her. She felt herself smile, heard herself laugh quietly and she wondered if this is what grace felt like. She was certain she was flying.

Then something ripped the knife from her hand and tore her hand from the sky. She looked back up and saw only the gaping hole left by the absence of grace. And she wanted to scream, but couldn't remember how, and someone wrapped the blanket around her body and she was moving without walking.

She heard someone mutter and recognized the voice, but couldn't place it, but that was all right because she wasn't moving anymore and--

Someone plunged her arm into a fire and she cried out and tried to tear her arm from the flames, but the fingers tightly coiled around her wrist kept her steady.

"Dammit, Sam," she heard someone say. "Hold still."

Then something clicked. "Jack?" She spoke before realizing it and blinked several times to clear the haze from her eyes. She heard him grunt in response, saw the yellow cast to his face and the severity of his expression. Without looking at her, he released his grip on her wrist and reached for another cottonball. "What are you doing?" she asked.

He stopped, a cottonball in one hand, an open bottle of rubbing alcohol in the other. "What does it look like I'm doing?" His voice was low, angry, and she winced when it hit her ears.

But she shook her head and slid from the bathroom countertop. "No," she whispered, keeping her injured arm against her chest as she searched blindly for the wall behind her. "I don't want you to."

"And I really don't give a damn what you want right now," he said, his eyes ferociously tearing into her. She had seen his eyes destroy his enemies on the battlefield even before any shots had been fired. She had always pitied those stabbed with those eyes; never did she dream she would be on the receiving end.

She shirked his gaze and raked her nails against the wall as she slid slowly to the floor. "Please don't look at me like that," she whispered, swallowing the tears pressing against her throat. "Please." Silence enveloped them and she struggled not to breathe too loudly. Finally, she heard his quiet footfalls come towards her and buried her head in her knees, silently begging her mind to still as she clutched her injured arm to her body. She felt the warmth radiate from him as he stooped to sit next her; she listened to his measured breathing for the space of five heartbeats.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, the anger gone and replaced with what? Exhaustion? Fear?

She turned her head towards him, her temple resting on her knee. He was looking out the bathroom doorway, not at her, and his jaw was lax, his eyes weary, and she had never seen him so lost. Tentatively, she reached towards him, his eyes closing when her fingertips brushed his cheek.

He turned into her touch and held her fingers tightly to his lips, then his cheek before taking her hand in both of his. His thumb running back and forth slowly across her knuckles and his eyes searching hers for something she couldn't name, he asked softly, "What happened?"

She stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"Did something happen that made you--" He stopped and broke her gaze, his bottom lip wedged between his teeth.

She shook her head. "No," she whispered.

His eyes were red rimmed when he looked at her again, not from tears, she thought, but from grief. "Then why?" he asked her, and she thought of sitting on the deck, her legs bare, the sun setting over the trees, glinting on the lake—and of the insects.

But she knew that wasn't why. If it hadn't been the insects, it would have been something else that motivated her. She--

"I needed to," she realized and pressed her arm closer to her chest.

Jack frowned and his thumb stilled on her knuckles. "What do you mean, you needed to? Was it some Ancient thing--"

"_No_," she said forcefully. "It was me. I did it, not them. I--" A sob suddenly escaped her throat and she wrenched her hand away from him to cover her face. She felt his fingers at her neck and she turned to look at him, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "I'm still me, aren't I?" The words trembled off of her tongue and her stomach churned while waiting for his answer.

But he nodded without hesitation. "Yeah, of course you are."

Another sob choked her and she took a deep breath. "You say it so easily," she told him, tears dripping from her eyes. "But I don't know if I'm still me in here, inside my skin. Inside my head—not sometimes. I just—I had to see. For myself." Burying her fingers in her hair, she dug her nails into her scalp and tightly closed her eyes, willing her tears to end.

"C'mere," he whispered to her, his arms open and waiting for her. She fell into them, her body limp and ragged, a few renegade tears meandering from her eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

--

now

--

She hadn't spoken in ten minutes; Jack was counting. Her eyes were open, she was sitting up, a knee held loosely to her chest, but she wasn't speaking—hadn't since she realized what she had done.

At least, that's what Jack assumed she remembered when she had uttered, "Oh my god..." ten minutes and twenty-two seconds ago. But for all he knew, she might be lamenting the untimely passing of the carafe for her coffeemaker. Or maybe another polar bear had died in the arctic. She cried for hours when she saw a poacher take down a mother a few weeks ago. Her cubs lasted two and a half days. Sam had been devastated.

"Still no change?" Doctor Lam appeared at his shoulder, frowning and scribbling on her clipboard. He wondered if the woman was ever in a good mood.

He missed Janet.

"Nope," he told her, failing to keep all of the disdain out of his voice. "No change."

The doctor hummed softly and tapped her pen against her leg. "I'm taking her off olanzapine and switching to clozapine. They're similar, so the side effects won't be markedly different." Jack heard her pen scratching against paper. "I'm hoping the clozapine will retard her suicidal tendan--"

"No."

He felt her glare at him. "Excuse me, sir?"

"She has enough to deal with without you people pumping her full of drugs you think possibly, _maybe_, if we're lucky might work."

Doctor Lam shifted and faced him fully. "With all due respect, sir," (_oh_, _**here**__ we go..._) "Colonel Carter just attempted suicide--"

"Oh, is _that_ what that was?" Jack asked, false incredulity dripping from tone. "I'd been wondering."

"It's _procedure_, sir," Doctor Lam continued, her eyebrow arched half-way up her forehead. "After such an event to--"

"Drug her? Strap her down?"

Lam squared her shoulders and he thought for sure she was going to deck him. "Take every possible precaution to ensure that such an event will not happen again." She paused. "Sir."

Jack's eyes narrowed as he considered the doctor. She shifted her weight under his scrutiny, smoothed her hair behind her ear. "How many ingredients in Carter's current chemical cocktail?"

He swore he heard her sigh in frustration. She was right. He did already know. "Seven."

"And exactly how many of those little pills are _actually_ working?"

"The lithium has subdued her and alleviated the headaches," she told him pointedly. "And I believe the olanzapine was instrumental in delaying further manifestation of her suicidal ideation."

Jack's brow inched skyward. "That's two."

Lam's eyes slipped closed as she sighed. Her arms falling limply to her sides, she asked him, "What do you want to hear, General?" When she looked at him again, her sense of defeat was palpable. "I don't have a magic pill or procedure to fix what's been done to Colonel Carter. Her condition is physical more so than psychological, but her symptoms place her firmly in the category of psychosis."

Jack nodded. "And you don't know what to do."

Lam's head snapped up, and Jack could see her defenses rallying, ready to surge into battle. But when she looked at him—_really_ looked at him—she must have _finally_ sensed that he did not blame her for her ignorance. Her shoulders slumped beneath her white medical jacket and she leaned against the foot of Carter's bed. "No, sir," she said softly. "I really don't."

"Me either," he told her. "And I went wacko from an overdose of Ancient knowledge. Twice." He saw a smile flicker across the doctor's face. "Maybe," he drawled, easing himself off of Sam's bed and stretching out his back. "Maybe all those chemicals and what have you are making it harder for her to think straight." He shrugged. "Maybe she needs a break."

Doctor Lam's lips pursed as she considered it. "We could try gradually reducing her dosages. It's something we haven't tried yet, at least." She scribbled something on her clipboard and made a quick note on the pages hanging from the foot of Sam's bed. "I hope you're right, General."

Jack nodded. "It would be fairly awesome if a bit unprecedented."

Lam smirked. "Yes, sir," she said before turning and retreating to her office.

Listening to the fading clicks of the doctor's heels against the concrete, Jack started when cold fingers grasped his. Then he smiled. "Hey, I know you."

Sam's eyes wandered from his face to his fingers and back again, and the hand in his trembled. She stared at his chest as her lips worked to make sound, though produced nothing intelligible save a soft grunt as her throat caught. Wordlessly, he opened his arms to her and she carefully crawled into them, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder and gripping the fabric of his shirt in a tightly wound fist. She was shaking.

"I got you," he assured her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His hand running soothing circles around her back, he eased himself onto the edge of her bed.

"I didn't want to leave you," he heard her whisper. She pressed herself tightly to his side as if trying to meld herself to him, to make them one.

He pulled back and crooked a finger under her chin. He said simply, "You didn't," and she turned from him.

"I tried," she asserted and stared down at her bandaged arms. "Almost made it."

He winced and raked his fingers through his hair. Her detachment grated him. This wasn't the scenario he imagined while she lay unconscious. His version was stitched together with apologies, kisses, tears and the continuous repetition of, "I promise never to do that ever again _ever_ as long as I live, so help me God."

But she was just sitting there, very close to him, smelling of sweat and antiseptic, and examining the gauze and medical tape swathing her forearms. He tried not to imagine the devastated flesh underneath and failed miserably.

She looked up at him and he thought he knew how she looked as a child. "You came," she said and reached up to smooth his eyebrow. "You found me."

He nodded so slowly he wasn't conscious of his head moving. "I did," he agreed at last. "Thank god."

"There aren't any," she told him, her head cocked gently to the side as she traced his temple. "It's just us."

His eyes slowly narrowed as he watched her. Her finger coursed across the side of his face, her path random and oh-so-absent, and when she touched his lips, he folded her hand to his chest. "Sam, look at me." When she gave no indication that she heard him, he took her chin in hand and directed it towards him. Staring into her eyes for several moments, he swallowed as he saw no hint of recognition, only intrigue—as if he were a puzzle in need of solving. "Do you know who I am?" he asked her.

She nodded. "You're the one who found me."

He buried his face in his hands. Part of him wished Doctor Kierken hadn't experienced a spiritual awakening and subsequent freeing of his corporeal being. He needed a punching bag. Preferably one that bled.

His top lip was wedged between his teeth when he looked at her again. She was staring at him and he could hear her mind working as her fingers rustled the sheet. He stilled them, her skin cold against his palm, and leaned forward to brush her lips with his own. It wasn't quite a kiss, more an exchange of breath, but when he shifted back, her eyes were closed and a hand fluttered to her lips.

"Perseus protects us," she whispered and her eyes melted open.

"Yeah," he said. His knuckles glided across her cheek and she leaned into the caress, towards him, one of her hands cupping the back of his head and urging it towards her.

Their lips met again and this time it was very much a kiss.

And just for a moment he indulged and lost himself in her and didn't really give a damn that she wasn't _entirely_ herself or that she virtually called him _Perseus_, not _Jack_ or that he was losing feeling in his left butt cheek because, sweet zombie_ jee_zus, had he missed her. Missed touching her, kissing her—feeling her kiss him, fervently returning his passion for passion.

They parted for breath and she gasped his name.

He swore the room grew brighter. "Yeah." And then her eyes were _her eyes, _the eyes he had memorized years ago. _Her eyes_ without the torment woven through them, without the knowledge of galaxies or distant civilizations--the eyes he saw now only in dreams. But he _wasn't_ dreaming and he couldn't bring himself to move or breathe or speak lest he lose her to her delusions again.

But then she was alternately kissing him and whispering his name over and over again as if she was trying to burn the memory of him into her mind and body and he was lost somewhere between her lips and the edge of her tongue and he was _so entirely fine_ with staying lost and alone with her and her fingers in his hair and trailing over his ears and down his neck because _this_ made sense.

"Whoops."

Jack tore his lips from Sam's, his eyes buried deeply in hers, silently urging her to stay with him. "Daniel, turn around and walk away." His voice was hoarse and sharper than he intended, but he really didn't care.

"But--"

"_**Now**_."

"Going."

The curtain rustled faintly in the background and the clock's second hand pulsed in his head. He didn't know how long she could stay present in her own mind, and he silently cursed himself for forgetting every single damn thing he had wanted to tell her should this moment ever arise.

Cupping her jaw in his hands, he could see her struggling to remain with him and he wished to god those demons were corporeal so he could help her beat the shit out of them. "No matter how this turns out," he told her, his voice tight, "I will _always_ love you." He winced. "But not in the cheesy 90s pop song way. I mean, _really_ love you."

He thought he saw her smile, but he wasn't quite sure because her eyes began to grow more distant and she shook herself, her fingernails digging into his arms. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat hitched and she moaned, gripping her head in her hands.

"Hey, hey," Jack whispered, grabbing her wrists and wrenching them away from her head. "None of that. Look at me." She did, and Jack's gut clenched when he saw the distance clouding her eyes. "Sam, stay with me," he urged her. "Focus." She blinked and shook her head, her breaths audible and rapid as she desperately clung to him. "Tell me what you know about Mathers," he said, smoothing her hair away from her face. "Do you know what they're planning to do?"

"They want me," she told him and then violently shook her head, gasping. "They want me and you can't let them take me." Her eyes seared into him then, and his mouth dropped open in the intensity of her stare. "No matter what," she stressed. "You _**cannot**_ let them have me."

He frowned. "Well, yeah. That's kind of a given."

"_Jack_," she forced out through clenched teeth. "You need to do whatever it takes."

"Sam, I--"

"_Whatever it takes_," she repeated and, dammit, her eyes were so incredibly blue and beseeching and she was _right there_. He could never say no to her.

He nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

But she shook her head. "Promise me."

He studied her a moment and the wild desperation in her eyes sparked something deep in his belly, making his stomach churn. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Promise. Me." The tenuous hold she had on her clarity was fading quickly and he could see her tension mounting in response. She wavered slightly and gripped his shoulder to stay upright. "_Please_..." She was all but begging him.

"I promise."

She smiled, relieved, and brushed her lips to his.

And then she was gone.

--

"My timing must be off today," Daniel mused as he returned to Mitchell's side in the infirmary.

"What are you talkin' about?" Mitchell asked him. "Your timing's always off."

Daniel glared at him over the rim of his glasses. "More off than usual."

Mitchell's face lit in understanding as the import of the faint red tinge in Daniel's cheeks registered. "They were..."

"...having a moment, yeah."

"Ya gotta respect the moment."

"Especially when the moment involves two highly skilled Air Force officers, both very capable of killing you in dozens of horrible, painful ways."

"Naw," Mitchell said, shaking his head. "They like you. They'd make it quick."

"Thanks."

"Is Colonel Carter unable to accept visitors?" Teal'c appeared beside Daniel, his brow furrowed.

Daniel shook his head. "She is. She just...already has one."

Teal'c inclined his head in understanding. "I see."

At that moment, Jack's hand appeared through the break in the curtains and pulled the one barring them from Sam aside. The ensuing gap was quickly filled by the combined girth of Mitchell, Daniel and Teal'c, all of whom immediately looked to Sam. Daniel's gaze swept over her huddled body, the way her fingers twitched in response to nothing, the distance in her eyes. Mitchell could not tear his eyes from her bandages and a heavy weight settled in his stomach. He never should have let her go without back-up.

"Mitchell," Jack said, fully cognizant of the colonel's view and likely train of thought. "Glad to see you well. And alive."

He snapped out of his reverie. "Thank you, sir." Glancing at Daniel, he said, "That seems to be a popular theme today."

Jack shrugged. "Yeah, well. Misunderstandings, crossed wires, all that."

Teal'c caught his attention then by stepping to Sam's side and producing a cup of blue jello. He removed the cup's lid and stooped until he was even with her eye level. "Colonel Carter," he said softly and with more tenderness than Jack ever expected. When Sam didn't respond, Teal'c reached out and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. "Samantha," he said and his lips flickered into a small, warm smile when she looked at him, her eyes wide. He offered the cup to her, but she failed to notice. Her eyes were busy trailing the contours of his face, searching, Jack suspected, for any shard of familiarity.

But then she saw his offering and she abandoned her search, her face cresting in a brilliant smile—a real, honest-to-goodness Sam Carter smile—as she reached for the cup. Teal'c rested the plastic spoon on top of the gelatin and handed it to her, his chocolate eyes warming further when she gripped his fingers.

"It's Thursday," she whispered, looking between her friend and the cup of jello.

Teal'c inclined his head. "Indeed it is."

She smiled and settled back on her bed before helping herself to a heaping spoonful of jello.

Jack's eyes narrowed as Teal'c again regarded them, the Jaffa's smile still firmly in place. "Thursday?" Jack asked.

"Colonel Carter and I have a long standing tradition of gathering together on Thursday afternoons in order to consume colored gelatin," Teal'c explained.

Jack frowned, but couldn't keep the spark from his eyes. "So you have a standing _date_ with my girlfriend."

Teal'c considered this. "She was not your girlfriend at the time of the tradition's inception, O'Neill."

He smiled. "Right."

"Looks like the gang's all here." General Landry strode up behind Daniel and Mitchell, Mitchell all but springing off of the empty bed he had sat upon earlier. "At ease, Colonel," Landry told him and then, seeing the half-empty cup in Sam's hand, smiled. "Must be Thursday," he said.

"Must be," Jack agreed, sharing a glance with Teal'c. "What do you know, Hank?"

Landry shook his head. "Not much. Mitchell tell you about his intell?"

"Nope," Jack said, glancing at Mitchell. "He didn't."

"I was getting there, sir," Mitchell assured him.

"Never mind," Landry said and sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "The disc that Colonel Mitchell retrieved is encrypted and, from what the lab techs tell me, likely to stay that way for some time."

Daniel frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "They can't crack it?"

"Not in this lifetime," Landry told him. "Normally, this is a task I'd assign to Colonel Carter, but--"

"Why don't you?"

Four heads simultaneously turned towards Jack. He shrugged. "If her..." He trailed off and gestured to his head. "..._problem_ really is that she knows too damn much, why not let her have a go at it?" He exchanged looks with Landry, whose brows bowed as he considered it. "Couldn't hurt."

Landry turned and beckoned to Doctor Lam. "Would you have any objection to Colonel Carter working on a laptop while in the infirmary?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "Right now, it's a matter of keeping potentially dangerous objects out of her possession." Jack pursed his lips, his hand coming to rest protectively on Sam's ankle. "I would want someone with her at all times," she continued, "but other than that, no. Shouldn't be a problem."

"I'll stay with her," Jack volunteered, but Lam pegged him with an arched brow.

"You need to sleep, sir."

"But I--"

"You've been awake constantly for the past thirty-six hours," she told him, sounding just a tad too accusatory, Jack thought. "I expect you to get at least six hours' sleep and eat a decent meal before you set foot in my infirmary again."

Jack glared at her. "You know, I was just starting to like you."

Lam smirked. "I think I'll live, sir."

His mouth opened to retort, but Daniel cut him off. "I'll stay with her while she works," he said, speaking more to Jack than either Lam or Landry. "She's still spouting that Ancient derivation on occasion. I'd like to see if I can get a better handle on it. It could be important."

Jack sighed (it sounded like a growl, Daniel thought) and silently admitted defeat. Tilting his head towards Sam, he said, "Give us a minute." At Lam's nod, he yanked the curtain back around them and turned, smiling when he saw Sam, her brow wrinkled as she wrestled the remaining jello from the bottom ridge of the cup. "We can get you more," he told her, but she didn't hear him and kept at her task.

He kept watching her and eventually she placed the empty cup on the table beside her bed, her lips tinged blue from the jello. She returned his gaze openly, the terrible distance still haunting her eyes.

"I love you," he told her. "I've never said that enough. I suck at it, in fact." He smiled. "But you know that." He gave her ankle a quick squeeze through the blankets and turned to go.

But her hand grasped his wrist and her eyes were wide when he met her gaze. He swore he could almost see her through the haze surrounding her irises. Then she tugged him towards her and buried her face in his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around his body.

He held her to him, one hand tangled in her hair, and knew that if she never recovered, he could live with it. He'd retire—_really_ retire—and take care of her himself, get her everything and everyone she needed in order to live the highest quality of life possible. Maybe, eventually, she'd be able to wrest more of her mind away from this...this distance.

He could live with that.

But he knew she couldn't. She had made it blindingly obvious that not only could she _not_ live in her current state, she couldn't even survive. And if survival is the basest form of living—well, she deserved _so much more_.

He vowed she was going to get it.

* * *

A/N: While OpenOffice says this chapter is only five pages long, it feels _much _longer. I wrote and rewrote and rerewrote this chapter _six freaking times _and I'm still not completely happy with it. But that's what rererewrites are for, right? Right.

This chapter is specifically for 7 League Boots, sbz and roguepheonix1. I hate singling people out, but honestly, your comments are responsible for every bit of awesome in this chapter. And whoever it was that commented on the lack of Teal'c in Alea Iacta Est, the Teal'c bit is for you.

Also, I'm looking for a beta or two (or seven) who would be willing to go through all of My Andromeda and My Perseus and poke holes in the plot, point out OOC moments, ask pertinent questions and then put up with my subsequent bitchiness. :) I'd prefer these people to be over 18 just 'cause I tend to, um, get colorful sometimes and I hate swearing in front of minors. Seriously depletes my stockpile of karma points. If you're willing and/or interested, PM me or email me at alyssa (dot) horn (at) gmail (dot) com. DO NOT include it in a review should you elect to leave one. Danke!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience while I wrestled with the _Chapter That Refused To End. _I was beginning to believe I was the ill-fated heroine of a B horror flick.

* * *

"Jack." 

"Yeah?"

"Stop."

"Stop what?" He flicked a few more droplets of water at her cleavage.

The cleavage heaved as Sam sighed and adjusted her bikini top.

"Need help with that?"

She glared at him over the rim of her sunglasses before returning to her science journal. Jack gathered a few more drops of condensation from his warming beer bottle onto his fingertips and propelled them towards her. Even after landing accurately on the freckled skin between her (barely) covered breasts (yet again!), she refused to react. He frowned.

And scooted out of his beach chair, grabbed the metal posts and whisked them around until the chair's foot was exactly perpendicular to her upper body. He settled in, smiling, and counted to ten before she looked at him again, her eyes questioning him.

"Enjoying the view," he explained and took a sip of his beer. "Ya know, if you hold that book about two inches lower--"

"Jack."

"Yeah?"

Shaking her head, she began reading her journal (again), but didn't answer his question.

Which _obviously_ gave him permission to keep enjoying said view.

Which kept him occupied for about two minutes before the urge to play with the view became overwhelming.

"Who brings work to Cabo?"

She shook her head, but kept her eyes trained on the page in front of her. "It's not work."

"It's an inch thick."

"Inch and a quarter."

"Whatever."

She turned the page.

He sighed (loudly) and shifted in his seat.

"You could go for a run," she suggested. "Gorgeous day for it."

He drained the last of his beer while considering her suggestion. "I could," he said at last and rose to stretch his back. Making a show of surveying the _gorgeous day_, he stood and circled their chairs, his neck craned upwards to look at the nearby palms. His back popped twice and he let out a relieved breath. "I like my idea better," he told her.

"Oh?" she asked, only half-listening to him, and flipped yet another page. "What's that?"

He grinned. "This." He plucked the journal from her hands and threw it aside, his grin widening at her startled gasp. With a low grunt, he hefted her into his arms and over his shoulder before running towards the water as fast as he could manage. Had she known that her shrieks of protest and vehement wriggling only fed his speed, she probably would've quieted.

Or not. He could never tell with her.

He managed to get waist deep before his body gave out and they went under in a squealing tangle of limbs. Jack managed to beat her to the surface, his grin entirely too wide for the good of his continued health.

After finding her footing and regaining her breath, Sam glared and lunged at him.

And abruptly realized he had liberated her breasts from their black spandex and lycra prison.

He smiled and held up the scrap of fabric on a hooked finger. "Oops?"

"You are _such_ a bastard."

"Yup," he agreed and then grinned as she tried to preserve her modesty while moving towards him and, in turn, into ever shallowing water. She stopped moving, her head tilted, her eyebrow impressively arched, her delicious lips a pencil thin line and if her eyes were laser beams of death, he would've been many, many tiny pieces of tropical fish food.

"Jack."

By her tone, he calculated he was about ten seconds away from sleeping on the beach for the three remaining days of their vacation. "Yeah?"

_Ten_.

"Stop being twelve and give me my top back."

_Nine_.

His forehead scrunched and he gripped her top in his hand. "Lemme think."

_Eight_.

"Like hell!" A short stream of froth trailed her as she propelled herself at him. He caught her around the waist, one of her arms pinned to her side while the other reached vainly for the article now held high above his head.

_Seven_.

"It's only fair!" He narrowly missed her head slamming (accidentally?) back towards his nose and gripped her body tighter to his chest.

_Six_.

"Jack O'Neill, I swear to god--" A well-placed (well-deserved) elbow jabbed him in the ribs, some of its heft (thankfully) stolen by the water's resistance.

_Five_.

"Whole _seconds_ of strategic planning--"

_Four_.

"Strategic planning, my ass!"

_Three_.

"Okay." He goosed her, grinning as she shrieked and spun in place, her hands momentarily distracted by protecting her posterior.

_Two_.

"Jack!" Catching her back in his arms, he drew her towards him, his touch decidedly gentler, and kissed her, thoroughly and passionately. They parted with a soft 'pop,' and he smiled down at her, her eyes hooded, her lips slowly quirking. He brushed an errant strand of hair from her face.

_One_.

"Marry me."

_Zero_.

She blinked and looked at him, her dazedness quickly usurped by incredulity. "Wh...what?"

"Marry me."

"That's what I thought you said."

He frowned and thought the water strangely quiet. "So..._that_ wasn't on my list of possible answers."

A laugh escaped her. She bit her lip to cover it, but her eyes still sparked at him, amused. "You made a _list_ of my possible answers."

Scrutinizing the waves just over her shoulder, he said, "I wasn't entirely joking about the strategic planning."

Her arms tightened around his neck and her hips relaxed against his thighs. "What was on your list?"

A breath flowed from his lips—and, really, the waves just over her shoulder were _fascinating. "_Ah, you laughing at me, slapping me--"

"That almost happened."

He shook his head. "Doesn't count," he told her, meeting her eyes (which were _still_ laughing at him). "That was before I asked." But then his eyes narrowed. "...right?"

His sigh of relief when she nodded only increased her amusement. "What else?"

Groaning softly, he loosened his grip on her waist and went back to studying the waves. "Saying no and crying, saying yes and crying--"

"Crying?"

"Women cry in these situations!"

She considered it and 'hmm'd softly in consent. "Any others?"

God_damn_, those waves were really...really boring. He sighed, but refused to cringe. "...'bout five pages," he muttered.

And she laughed. Full bellied, right from the lungs, through the throat and straight across the water. Danced—her laughter _danced_ across the water, its substantial blue paling in comparison to her joyful, glowing eyes that were radiating her happiness straight at him. At that, he couldn't help but smile.

"So," he began when her laughter had subsided. "It'd be kinda nice to know which of my--"

"Bet it's not on your list."

"I dunno," he said slowly. "I was pretty thorough."

She smiled and nudged his thigh. "Ask me again."

He'd ask a million times if she wanted him to. "Marry me."

"On one condition."

His eyebrows arched. "Oh?"

"Give me my top back."

Oh. Right. Lips pursed, he considered it for a long moment before regarding her out of the corner of his eye. "Do I get to take it off again?"

She grinned. "Yes."

"Soon?" he asked hopefully, bracing himself as she playfully punched his shoulder.

"_Jack_."

"All right, fine." He handed her the article he had all but forgotten, and even helped her adjust and retie it, his fingers suddenly feeling like sausages as he tried to manipulate the thin strings. After she was appropriately covered again, he cleared his throat and would've stared at his feet if he could've seen them through all the sand she had disturbed. "So, uh, that's a yes...right?"

She chuckled and wrapped her arms around his neck, her body pressing fully against his. "Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

He grinned. "Sweet."

Then she was kissing him again, and he was happily drowning in her, relishing the hint of margarita on her tongue, the salt on her skin, the breeze prickling her hair through his fingers, and, dear god, was this caliber of happiness even possible?

He hadn't thought so, but the woman currently ravishing his mouth with her tongue had blown up a sun. Accomplishing the impossible _was_ her job description.

But the tongue tangled with his stilled and her hands slowed their mad dance across his back, and before he could remember that this wasn't how it had actually unfolded, the life flowed from her body and she began floating away from him, his arms now open and cold and uselessly hanging from his shoulders.

He tried to call to her, but his lips and tongue forgot how to function, and he couldn't see his reflection in her eyes.

He saw cities crumbling, engulfed in flames; children screaming, coughing through dark streams of smoke; people laying slaughtered in streets slick with blood; a little girl clinging to the lifeless body of her mother.

Was there really so much pain in the universe?

He heard the shot that killed his son and had his answer.

She floated from him though there was no current.

Her lips were blue. Her eyes rolled white in her head.

The sand wrapped around his ankles and he couldn't move.

She was so far from him.

_Come back._

_Dear god, come back._

Jack awoke abruptly, his own heartbeat deafening. Automatically, his left hand jetted to the matress beside him and he nearly panicked when he found it empty.

But she was in the infirmary, he remembered.

And he was at Stargate Command, though he could still smell the sea.

The sheets adhered to his body like a second skin, and he grimaced as he peeled himself out of bed. He glanced at the clock.

2337.

He'd managed to sleep for five hours. It'd have to be enough. No way he was even entertaining the idea of sleep, not with his subconscious playing Russian roulette with his happiest memories.

The image of her floating from him burned his eyes.

It hadn't happened, he reminded himself as he paced her quarters. Not like that. They kissed and abandoned the beach in favor of their villa where they made love, slept and ordered pizza. (Not the most romantic meal, but the combination of mind-blowing sex and sleep had reduced Sam's vocabulary to "mushrmmfs, zauzage, no ununs." Thankfully, it hadn't been his first time ordering their post-coital pizza and he had been able to translate.)

She was still floating in front of him.

He scrubbed his palms over his eyes, willing the image out of mind.

He had to see her, just to be certain she was still physically with him even if her mind was elsewhere. But when he leaned over to pluck his shirt from the floor, his head swam and he grudgingly acknowledged the ache in his stomach.

Perhaps food wasn't entirely overrated.

--

As soon as he had set the laptop in front of her, Sam had started working. In the five hour interim, Daniel had grown accustomed to her fingers blurring over the keys—she used her left hand infrequently—and the random words that hushed through her lips.

The English phrases confused the hell out of him (blue ravens speak at midnight?), but the Ancient derivation was fascinating. He had three pages of notes and a running audio record, and the scientist in him _could not wait_ to completely translate the shit out of them.

But the brother in him was silently wailing at his sister's continued lack of awareness. He considered himself a non-violent person, but had the Ori still been a threat, he would've taken them on single-handedly and seriously bruised their megalomaniac, non-corporeal asses.

Of course, he would've had a slew of help, regardless of his mental bravado.

"Do you believe the answers we seek lie in this text?"

Daniel heaved a sigh, which immediately morphed into a yawn, and shrugged. "It's gotta tell us more than we know now. Anything would be helpful."

Teal'c's jaw flexed. "Indeed." He fell silent and regarded Sam as she alternately squinted and stared wide-eyed at the computer screen.

"Planta mihi univera," Sam whispered, her fingers tripping over the keys and then stilling. "Repario via."

Daniel scribbled the words into his notes, his forehead creased. "Make me complete," he said. "Find a way." He shared a heady glance with Teal'c before noting his translation.

Daniel could've sworn he heard Teal'c growl before he began to speak. "If Colonel Carter's potential captors realize we have possession of this information and the ability to decipher it--"

"Which they will," Daniel said. "Just to complicate matters."

Teal'c silently agreed. "I fear we may not have much time."

Daniel frowned. "To do what?"

"Secure Colonel Carter," Teal'c replied, his eyebrow arched to the middle of his forehead. "By whatever means necessary."

His mouth falling open as he absorbed the implication of Teal'c statement, Daniel regarded his friend through slanted eyes. "You think we should move her."

Teal'c nodded. "To a more secure location."

"We're thirty stories underground in the most top secret facility in the history of the world," Daniel told him. "Plus, General Landry has half the SF's on base assigned to protecting Sam."

"But it is a military facility," Teal'c reminded him. "And it is the military who wish Colonel Carter harm."

"We don't know that," Daniel said, but even he noticed the lack of confidence in his voice.

Teal'c noticed it, as well. "We have ample evidence to support it."

Daniel sighed and clicked the butt of his pen several times. "Well, yeah," he said. "There's that. But until we know for sure--"

"No," Sam whispered, and Daniel started at the terror in her voice. The tips of her fingers were trailing along the screen in front of her.

"Sam?" Daniel hopped down from his stool to look over her shoulder at the text. As far as he could tell, the data she was reading was still encrypted. "What is it?"

"We have to go," she breathed and pushed the laptop to the foot of her bed. Yanking the I.V. from her arm and wresting the diodes from her body, she propelled herself to the ground, her bare feet slapping against the concrete floor as she ran from the infirmary. He heard the SF's at the door call out to her, followed by the scuttle of heavy footsteps as they followed in pursuit. Teal'c had already grabbed the computer and fled the infirmary by the time he had gathered his notes. A vice-like grip stilled him as he reached the doorway.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Doctor Lam asked, her eyes laced with ire.

Daniel shook his arm from her grasp and resumed his frantic pace. "Don't know," he called over his shoulder. "Tell Landry!"

"Tell him _what?_" Lam called after him, but he had already turned the corner.

--

Jack stared at his half-eaten club sandwich, exhaustion and circumstance still muddling his mind, and stabbed repeatedly at the trail of French fries and ketchup encircling his meal. A few months ago, he had rolled his eyes at the green ketchup he saw at the supermarket. After nearly drowning in his fiancee's blood, green ketchup didn't sound like such a terrible idea.

Then he remembered that Unas bled green and thought purple ketchup the better alternative. He wasn't aware of any alien species with purple blood. Yet.

"Mind if I join you, sir?"

Without looking up, Jack shook his head, his fork clattering onto his plate as he released it and leaned back in his chair. "What's up?"

"Nothin', sir," Mitchell answered as he placed his tray on the table, his plate laden with the noodles and unidentifiable grayish sauce Jack had foregone in favor of the sandwich. (Which still ended up tasting like cardboard, but he was willing to blame situational taste bud distress for that one.)

"You sure?"

"Yes, sir," Mitchell stuffed a forkful of food in his mouth.

Jack's eyes narrowed as he studied the Colonel. "You're a terrible liar."

Mitchell's jaw paused momentarily. After he had swallowed, he sighed. "So I've been told."

Jack said nothing, but eyed Mitchell's pie with growing gastrointestinal interest as his companion absently pushed his food around his plate.

"I'd like to apologize, sir," Mitchell said at last. "For allowing Colonel Carter to be abducted on P3A-294. If I had ordered her to go with back-up, none of this would've happened."

Jack frowned. "Or," he drawled. "You, Daniel or Teal'c would be dead and Carter still would've had her mind futzed with."

"Sir--" Mitchell began, his tone laced with protest, but Jack waved him down.

"Colonel, during my time leading SG-1 _nothing_ went according to plan. Ever." He considered those seven years a moment, his eyebrows arching. "Most of the time we didn't even _have_ a plan. We just made it up as we went along and, somehow, it all turned out okay. Most of the time."

Mitchell's pie was still taunting him, so he readied his fork and hacked a large piece off of the tip. "Thanks for the pie," he said around a mouthful of pastry and apples.

"I've read those mission reports, sir--"

"I know."

"And _I _know that you never left anyone unescorted. Not once."

Jack sighed. "From what I understand, SG-1 is more of a cooperative unit these days."

"Yes, sir."

"And all of you—including Carter—agreed that that planet was nonhostile."

"Well, yes, sir, but--"

"Carter is one of the best officers the Air Force has ever had the privilege to have," Jack told him quietly, his eyes darkly serious. Mitchell's protesting gaze faltered and fell to his plate of food. "She can more than handle herself in any conceivable situation, combat or otherwise." Jack paused, mulling over his companion's silence, watched his eyes shift, heard the frantic bounce of his foot against the floor. "But you know that." Leaning forward in his chair, Jack asked, "What's this really about?"

After a long moment, Mitchell looked up, his eyes fluttering between Jack's and various places over Jack's shoulders. Finally, he said, "I guess I need to apologize to you specifically, sir." He cleared his throat and didn't quite look at Jack. "As her fiance."

Oh. His lips pursed, Jack retrieved his fork and returned to torturing his French fries. Jack O'Neill, Major General, knew Mitchell was not to blame for Sam's condition; Jack O'Neill, Sam's fiance, wasn't quite to that point yet. Still, his voice soft, he said, "Wasn't your fault, Mitchell."

"No offense, sir, but you're a terrible liar."

Jack smirked mirthlessly. "Not usually." He drew in a purposeful breath, held it for a five count and then slowly allowed his lungs to deflate. "If you hadn't let her go," he said, his eyes on his plate of mostly disemboweled fries, "We'd either be dead or at prostration right now." He fell silent a moment and remembered her lips pressed frantically, desperately, passionately to his, her hands clutching his shoulders, her nails pressing lightly into his skin through his uniform. "Every war has its fallout," he said at last. "This time, it just hits a little closer to home." It wasn't an absolution, but Jack didn't think Mitchell had been expecting one despite the apology he had tendered.

The pair lapsed into silence, the tink of silverware and the rustle of napkins a lulling underscore in the background. The commissary was mostly empty—it _was_ 0012—and most of the occupants were involved with either a cup of coffee or a plate of dessert.

Dessert. Jack hacked off another bite of Mitchell's pie.

"It's gotten better," he said, chewing four times before swallowing. "Better crust."

Mitchell nodded his agreement. "They started using Granny Smith instead of Golden Delicious."

"Really?"

"Yup. And using a vegetable peeler instead of a knife to get the slices really thin." The corner of Mitchell's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "My grandma's secret."

"Not so secret anymore."

"Well," Mitchell began, fully smiling now. "My grandma's definition of a secret was anything her neighbor, Mrs. Peters, didn't find out about."

Jack smiled and stole another bite of pie. He opened his mouth to speak when the commissary doors slammed open. Both he and Mitchell immediately sprang to their feet when they saw Sam streaking towards them, her frantic terror trailing her like smoke. Before he could even think to ask her what the hell she was doing out of the infirmary, he heard those damn words tremble from her tongue.

"Vires haec, vires procula ianus."

And he couldn't help sighing to himself because they'd been through this entirely too many times in the past few months.

Automatically, his hands grasped her shoulders—gently, firmly—but before he could beseech her to look at him (like he always did), she was.

"Vires haec, vires _proula ianus_," she repeated, her fingers clenching the fabric of his sleeves, and his gut twisted.

Teal'c burst through the door, followed by two SF's, and he was positive his heart was beating more rapidly than was healthy for a man his age.

He looked to Teal'c. "What the hell happened?"

"Colonel Carter became most distressed after decoding a section of the disc."

"What's it say?"

Teal'c's head wavered back and forth. "I do not know. The information is still encrypted."

Jack's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "She decoded the unbreakable code _in her head_?"

"I believe so."

Sam shook his arms, a soft moan winding from her throat. "Nos postula dimitaeta _iam!"_

He felt his mouth fall open and his head shake, his gaze drawn deeply into her eyes—they were fluxed with fear she wasn't even attempting to hide. He cupped her jaw in one hand. "I'm sorry. I can't understand--"

With a frustrated grunt, she twisted from his arms and propelled herself towards the doors, heedless of the chairs she upended on the way.

"Sam!" Jack called as she skillfully evaded one of the SF's and incapacitated the other with a swift backhand to the bridge of his nose. As he began to chase after her, he found his arms weighted with a laptop and watched as Teal'c hurdled a table and took two quick strides before catching Sam around the waist and holding her securely to his chest. She struggled against him, her fists and heels flailing ineffectively at his bulk, streams of words washing from her lips. Jack was at their side in an instant and Mitchell grabbed Sam's wrists to still her assault.

The door opened again and Daniel swept into the commissary, his pace falling short as he surveyed the scene. "What the hell--" he began, but Jack immediately truncated his question.

"Daniel," he barked, "Wee-rays hake."

Daniel's eyes glazed for a second. "They're here," he said at last.

Jack felt all the blood drain from his face. He didn't have to ask who "they" were.

--

Colonel Mathers handed General Landry the manilla envelope, not even bothering to keep his smug smile at bay. "As you requested, General," he said. "A presidential order for the removal of Colonel Carter."

Landry simply gazed at the envelope for a moment before taking the proffered document. He slid the pages from their holder, scrutinizing them carefully, reading every word, every sentence twice, three times. He was all too aware of time passing.

So was Mathers. "General," he said after several minutes had elapsed. "The order is quite clear." Turning to the SF's flanking him, he said, "Go to the infirmary and secure Colonel Carter."

"Stand down," Landry said, still perusing the document.

Mathers frowned. "General?"

"I thought that was _quite clear_, Colonel," he said. "Kindly take a seat."

"General, I--"

Landry looked up quickly and Mathers was struck by the full force of the General's anger. "Sit. Down. Colonel."

He sat.

Landry nodded and picked up the red handset. "I have a call to make."

"It's just past midnight, sir."

Landry smirked. "Good thing I have his direct line, then, isn't it?"

--

Quickly pushing Mitchell out of the way and handing the laptop off to him, Jack took Sam's face in his hands. When her eyes fell into his gaze, she stopped struggling against Teal'c, though her body still shivered beyond her control. "They're here," he said softly, and her eyes widened as she nodded.

"Etiam," she said and Jack nodded for Teal'c to release her.

His teeth worked the inside of his lip. "Will we be able to--"

"Non, no," she interrupted. "Nos postula dimitaeta iam." She grabbed his wrist and began tugging him towards the door as he glanced at Daniel for clarification.

"Uh, we need to leave immediately," Daniel supplied and rummaged through the pages in his hand. "She said something similar when she was--" He broke off as Jack strode purposefully past him, his hand securely linked with Sam's as he made for the exit. "Wait," Daniel said. "Where are you going?"

"We're leaving."

"Now?"

Jack turned exasperated eyes to him. "Yes, Daniel, now," he said. "Preferably _before_ the bad guys find us."

"But we don't even know--"

"Daniel," he said sharply, his brown eyes black with ire as he jabbed a finger at Sam. "Look at her."

Daniel did and, for the first time, realized the extent of her distress. She trembled in place, and it looked almost as if her skin was quaking of its own accord. And her eyes—_god_, her eyes—they scanned the room, scraped away the layers of brick and concrete, searched for any hint of danger. He had never seen her so terrified.

"I'm coming with you," Daniel said, taking a step towards them.

Jack shook his head. "The fewer, the--"

"You need me to translate," he argued.

Teal'c stepped forward then. "And you will undoubtedly require backup."

Jack considered them a moment and grudgingly acknowledged the accuracy of their assessments. Swearing softly under his breath, he nodded. "T, zats. Four of them. Meet us at the surface access point down the hall."

Teal'c nodded his understanding and began to sweep from the room when one of the few officers in the commissary stood.

"Teal'c, sir!" he said, stumbling over his chair as he approached them. "The cameras. They'll take the surveillance footage."

Jack's eyebrow arched as he recognized the young man. He had spoken to him in the commissary earlier and identified himself as one of Sam's lab assistants.

"I can take the cameras the offline," he continued, trotting to Jack's side. "But it'll take about two minutes."

Without asking, Jack knew this young man was well aware of the ramifications of his proposed actions. He also knew by the earnest gleam in the the officer's face that he was more than willing to face them. Jack nodded. "Go."

As the man ran from the room, Jack turned to face the rest of the commissary's occupants. After a moment of simply staring them down, he said, "I will personally shoot anyone who says anything to those shrubs." A soft murmur of understanding passed through the small group and Jack was heartened by the few, "So will I"'s that followed. "SG-1, stay here," Jack said. "The rest of you, get the hell out. Keep 'em out of the corridor if you can."

--

Lam slowed her stride when she saw the group of SF's standing at attention outside her father's door. Swallowing her apprehension, she strode past them and into the room only to stop short when saw Colonel Mathers occupying one of chairs.

"I understand that, sir," her father was saying. "But Colonel Carter's continued presence at the SGC has to be of top priority." Landry frowned. "No, sir, I'm afraid I don't see your point. Colonel Carter is nothing short of a global hero and to even _think_ about treating her in this manner is--"

Lam unconsciously took a step back as she watched her father's brow flex and his eyes flame. She had become accustomed to that expression during her teens and knew it presaged the coming of her father's wrath. She really didn't envy either the president or Colonel Mathers.

"Yes, sir, I do have the order," Landry continued. "But I--" He paused and then sighed in disgust, the phone hanging limply from his fingers. Slowly, he replaced the handset on the cradle and stared straight through it.

Colonel Mathers leaned forward in his chair, his lips twisted in a smile. "I take it the president stood behind his order, sir?"

Instead of answering, Landry looked to Doctor Lam. "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

Lam glanced to Mathers, quickly looking back the General when the Colonel began to turn. "I wanted to remind you about the requisitions I turned in yesterday, General."

Landry nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm a bit on the busy side right now, but I'll look over them as soon as I get a minute."

"Sooner is better, sir," Lam told him, her expression mirroring her father's. "One of the requisitions is of particular importance. If we..._take our time_ in acquiring it, it may just..." She trailed off purposely and nailed the general with a heady stare. "Escape." Landry straightened. "There are several other organizations vying for priority. We do need to act quickly."

"Sounds pretty important, sir," Mathers said, rising from his chair. "But now that Colonel Carter is no longer your concern, it should free up plenty of your time."

"Excuse me?" Lam said, turning to the Colonel, and Landry smiled to himself as he watched his daughter's feigned ignorance. "Why is Colonel Carter no longer of concern to the general?"

Landry smiled to himself as he absorbed his daughter's spectacular display of feigned ignorance. Mathers, on the other hand, remained oblivious to her charade and smiled.

"We're assuming custody of Colonel Carter and moving her to a facility better equipped to handle her needs."

Lam's eyebrows arched. "Better equipped than the SGC? Not possible."

"I assure you it is," Mathers chuckled and Lam fought the urge to club him with her clipboard. "The SGC is equipped to handle many medical abnormalities, but appallingly lacks the means to adequately care for Colonel Carter, as her recent suicidal behavior illustrates."

Lam surveyed Mathers for a moment before drawing a deep breath and making a show of flipping through the notes on her clipboard. "Perhaps you have a point, Colonel," she said. "She might fare better at a different facility." She paused and made a quick note before looking back up at him. "I will need to see her medical release, of course."

Mathers' perma-smirk faltered. "Excuse me?"

"Her medical release," Lam repeated. "A condition as severe as Colonel Carter's requires one." She paused and puzzled at his gaping expression. "They didn't tell you?"

"Doctor," Mathers began smoothly. "I have an order from the president himself--"

"Who is _not_ a medical professional and, therefore, will not be in charge of Colonel Carter's physical well-being."

Landry chuckled to himself, his features carefully schooled, and looked expectantly at Mathers when the Colonel turned towards him. "Permission to use your phone, sir," he clipped out.

Landry nodded. "By all means."

--

"Where exactly are we planning to go?" Daniel leaned against a near table settling his notes and pens next to the laptop in a canvas bag donated by an exiting officer.

Jack scowled, his fingers pausing their idle trek through Sam's hair. "Away."

"But away to where?" Daniel asked, slinging the bag over his chest. "They're gonna find us."

"Eventually," Jack agreed. "But hopefully we can get enough of a head start to make sure that doesn't happen for awhile."

"And when it does?"

"We'll think of something."

Daniel readjusted the bag, thinking. "If we could get to the Stargate--"

"No." The vehemence Sam injected into that single word took Daniel aback.

"Why not?" he asked. "If they just got here, we could have a shot."

Struggling for words, her lips floated against each other and she managed a soft breath before she looked to Jack to aid.

"Anyone caught helping us is heading for a court marshal―if they're lucky." He paused, absently running his fingers down the slope of Sam's shoulder. "I won't to that to my people." Jack turned to Mitchell. "Which is why you have to stay here."

Mitchell's brow furrowed in protest. "General, I--"

"I need you here," Jack interrupted. "There's gonna be a search once they find us gone. I want you in on it." Jack watched as Mitchell's eyes shifted as he contemplated the ramifications of the General's request. "It's not an order, Colonel," Jack said softly.

Nodding, Mitchell said, "Oh, I know, sir. Just tryin' to think of who to assign to my team."

"Meyers, Ashland, Karkoff and Russell," Sam said quietly, her eyes narrowed and focused past the far wall. "You take them."

"See, you're still doin' all my work for me," Mitchell told her, the corner of his mouth upturned. "They're gonna get wise to my good for nothin' ass sooner or later." He gripped her shoulder and, stooping to kneel beside her, asked, "Anything else I should know?"

Without altering her gaze, she nodded. "Don't go north."

He waited a moment, perhaps waiting for further clarification. When none came, he stood, his body still stooped as his mind careened through possible strategies―all of which excluded going north. "All righty then," he said, and began to walk towards the exit when Teal'c stopped him.

"The cameras are still functioning."

Jack sighed. "Yeah, and it just hit two minutes. We'd better--" He jumped when his pocket began vibrating and whisked his cell phone from his pocket, doing his best to ignore the amused glances passing between Daniel, Teal'c and Mitchell. "I really hate these things," he mumbled.

But his lips slowly curved when he read the caller ID. He aimed a quick glance at Sam before flipping his phone open.

"Hey Cass," he said. "You at the house?"

"What the _fuck_ happened?! There's blood everywhere!"

Jack winced and swore softly when he heard Cassie draw a deep. shuddering breath. "Yeah, I know," he said.

"Is Sam okay?" God, she sounded twelve again. Jack could see her eyes peeking out from behind Sam's leg, Cassie's fragile fingers clinging to Sam's in a desperate attempt to prove to herself she wasn't dead.

"Yeah, she's fine," he assured her. "Everything's fine now."

"But it wasn't before?" The dull thump of a fist against wood filtered through the line. "Jack, why the _hell_ didn't you call me?"

"I'm sorry," he told her, his voice aching for her understanding. "I promise I'll tell you everything later." He paused, wetting his lips and casting one last look at Sam. After she nodded, her eyes growing increasingly vacant, he continued. "Cass," he sighed. "We need your help."

--


End file.
